.'— . 


y 

by 
'  A 


cff  ^/ou  ^jouck  ^ke 

*Vani6k.       glluAttated.     net  $1.00 


¥)lie  Penalty.  tflluAtrated.  net  $1.85 
eft,  and  ^tke^  StoiieA,  net  $1.25 

^ke  gtpiead  Sagle,  and 

Otke^  S^ieA.  net  $1.20 


crootpiintf  and  Gtket 

$1.50 


"If  I   had   the  power,"  he  thought,  "I'd  settle  this  region  with 
innocent  people  who  have  been  accused  of  crimes." 


(9f   Ijon  Souc/i  Skem 


youvetneut  c/Iuottid 


itk  illu6t^ation6  by 

,  Gtiapman 


1Q13 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 
Published  October,  1913 


950 

c/oh,n  cfzedezick  cByezd 


34040G 


Illustrations 

"If  I  had  the  power"  he  thought,  "I'd  settle  this 
region  with  innocent  people  who  have  been 
accused  of  crimes" Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Only  come  back,  darlint" — she  fought  against 
tears — "and  I'll  fill  the  house  with  helpers 
from  attic  to  cellar" 42 

"Now  how  about  a  sawmill — right  here?"     .     .       80 

During  the  winter  the  Poor  Boy  made  two  excur 
sions  southward  through  his  valley  and 
beyond 86 

She  suddenly  stopped  running,  and  turned  and 

waited  for  him 96 

His  fingers  began  to  follow  an  air  that  flowed  with 

eternal  sadness  like  blood  from  a  broken  heart     1 20 

"  She  will  always  be  just  as  I  see  her  now,  no 

older,  untroubled,  gentle,  and  dear"  .     .     .     132 

And  then  carrying  her  swiftly  home,  he  proceeded 

to  go  quite  mad 144 


OLD  Martha  wondered  if  the  Poor 
Boy  would  have  a  smile  for 
her.  He  had  had  so  many  in  the  old 
days,  the  baby  days,  the  growing-up 
days,  the  college  days,  the  "world  so 
new  and  all"  days.  There  were  some 
which  she  would  always  remember. 
The  smile  he  smiled  one  Christmas 
morning,  when  he  put  the  grand  fur 
coat  around  her  shoulders,  and  the  kiss 
on  her  cheek.  The  smile  he  smiled 
that  day  when  they  met  in  front  of 
the  photographer's,  and  he  took  her  in 
and  had  their  photograph  taken  to 
gether:  she  sitting  and  glaring  with 
embarrassment  at  the  camera,  he 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

standing,  his   hand   on   her   shoulder, 
smiling  —  down  on  her. 

To  save  her  life  she  could  not  recall 
a  harsh  word  in  his  mouth,  a  harsh 
look  in  his  eyes.  In  the  growing-up 
days  he  had  been  sick  a  great  deal; 
but  the  trustees  and  the  doctors  had 
put  their  trust  in  old  Martha,  and  she 
had  pulled  him  through.  When  the 
pain  was  too  great,  her  Poor  Boy  was 
always  for  hiding  his  face.  It  was  thus 
that  he  gathered  strength  to  turn  to 
her  once  more,  smiling.  It  was  Mar 
tha  who  spoke  stories  of  princesses 
and  banshees  and  heroes  and  witch- 
wolves  through  the  long  nights  when 
he  could  not  sleep.  It  was  old  Martha 
who  drew  the  tub  of  red-hot  water 
that  brought  him  to  life,  when  the 
doctor  said  he  was  dead. 


THEY    VANISH 

If  he  had  been  her  own,  she  could 
not  have  loved  him  more. 

How  many  hundred  cold  nights  she 
had  left  her  warm  bed,  to  return,  blue 
with  cold,  after  seeing  that  he  was 
well  covered !  How  she  had  dreaded  the 
passing  of  time  that  brought  him  nearer 
and  nearer  to  manhood,  in  whose  multi 
ple  interests  and  cares  old  tendernesses 
and  understandings  are  so  often  forgot 
ten.  But  wherever  he  went,  whatever 
he  did,  he  had  always  an  eye  of  his  mind 
upon  Martha's  feelings  in  the  matter. 
She  was  old,  Irish,  unlettered,  but  as  a 
royal  duchess  so  was  she  deferred  to  in 
the  Poor  Boy's  great  house  upon  the 
avenue. 

Old  Martha  had  seats  for  the  play 
whenever  she  wanted  them.  And  very 
handsome  she  looked,  with  her  red 

3 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

cheeks  and  her  white  hair,  and  her 
thick  black  silk.  One  winter,  when  she 
had  a  dreadful  cold,  the  Poor  Boy  took 
her  to  Palm  Beach  in  his  car,  and  in 
troduced  all  his  smart  friends  to  her. 
But  it  was  as  if  they  had  always  known 
her,  for  the  Poor  Boy,  who  talked  a 
great  deal,  never  talked  for  long  with 
out  celebrating  "my  nurse." 

"Oh,"  he  might  say,  "I,  too,  have 
known  what  it  is  to  have  a  mother." 

Or  coming  home  late  from  some  gay 
party,  the  sparkle  still  in  his  eyes,  he 
might  say  to  the  old  woman  herself: 

"I  love  people,  but  I  love  you 
more." 

Of  the  Poor  Boy  who  gave  her  so 
much  she  had  never  asked  but  one 
thing.  One  simple  kindly  act  in  the 
future.  She  had  made  him  promise  her 

4 


THEY    VANISH 

that;  take  his  oath  to  it,  indeed ;  cross 
his  tender  heart.  She  had  made  him 
promise  that  when  at  last  she  lay  dead, 
he  would  come  to  her  and  close  her 
eyes. 

He  would  keep  his  word;  not  a 
doubt  of  it.  But  he  would  do  more. 
He  would  see  to  it  that  in  Woodlawn, 
where  his  young  father  and  mother  lay, 
old  Martha  should  lie,  too,  and  that 
the  ablest  sculptor  of  the  time  should 
mark  her  grave  for  the  ages. 

The  Poor  Boy  had  the  intuition  of  a 
woman,  and  the  tenderness;  he  had 
the  imagination  of  a  poet  and  the  sim 
plicity  of  a  child.  Everybody  loved 
him  —  the  slim,  well-knit,  swift  body, 
carrying  the  beautiful  round  head;  the 
face,  so  handsome,  so  gentle,  and  so 

daring.     He  was  not  cast  in  a  heroic 
s 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

mould,  but  he  was  so  vivid  that  in 
groups  of  taller,  stronger  men  it  was  the 
Poor  Boy  whom  you  saw  first.  Half 
the  girls  did,  anyway,  and  most  of  the 
wives,  and  all  the  old  grandmothers. 
The  most  ambitious  girls  forgot  that  he 
was  princely  rich,  and  wanted  him  for 
himself  alone.  But  the  "world-so-new- 
and-all"  was  cram-jammed  with  flow 
ers,  and  the  Poor  Boy  was  dazzled,  and 
did  not  more  than  half  make  up  his 
mind  which  was  the  loveliest. 

Old  Martha  was  a  firm  believer  in 
love  at  first  sight  (otherwise  she  might 
never  have  been  a  wet-nurse),  and  of 
ten,  when  the  Poor  Boy  came  home 
from  some  great  gathering  of  people, 
she  would  ask  him,  "Did  it  happen  to 
yez?"  And  he  knew  what  she  meant, 
and  teased  her  a  little  sometimes,  say- 


THEY    VANISH 

ing  that  he  wasn't  "just  quite  sure." 
(And  he  wasn't  —  always.) 

One  day  the  world  crashed  about  old 
Martha's  ears.  The  Poor  Boy  stood 
up  in  the  court  and  said,  "Not  guilty," 
in  his  clear,  ringing  voice.  But  they 
didn't  believe  her  child,  her  angel,  and 
when  they  sent  him  to  prison  she  tore 
her  white  hair,  and  beat  her  head 
against  the  wall  of  her  bedroom  until 
she  fell  senseless.  And  indeed  it  was 
true  that  Justice,  the  light  woman,  had 
again  been  brought  to  bed  of  a  mis 
carriage.  But  who  was  to  believe  that, 
when  Justice's  whole  family  and  her 
doctor  gave  out  that  the  child  was 
clean-run  and  full  time?  If  any  be 
lieved  there  were  not  many.  The  Poor 
Boy  was  a  poor  boy,  indeed,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  (trying  so  very  hard 

7 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

not  to  go  mad)  that  his  life  was  all 
over. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  getting 
ready  at  last  to  begin. 


O 


II 


NE  day  old  Martha  received  the 
following  letter: 


"MARTHA,  DEARIE:  I  didn't  do  it. 
But  only  you  believe  that,  and  I.  You 
will  go  to  Joyous  Guard,  for  love  of  me, 
and  put  the  cottage  in  order.  I  shall 
live  there  when  I  come  out,  and  you 
shall  take  care  of  me.  But  are  you 
too  old  ?  Can  you  do  the  cooking  and 
the  housework  for  us  two?  It's  I 
that  will  split  the  wood  and  carry  the 
coals.  If  the  work  is  too  heavy,  dearie, 
you  must  choose  some  one  to  help  you. 
Some  one  who  will  never  come  where  I 
am,  whom  I  shall  never  have  to  look  in 

9 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

the  face.  For  it 's  you  only  that  I  can 
look  in  the  face  now,  or  bear  to  have 
look  in  mine.  My  more  than  mother, 
God  bless  you,  and  believe  me  always, 
with  all  my  love,  your 

"POOR  BOY." 

"Choose  some  one  to  help  her!"  Old 
Martha  snorted.  "Not  if  I  was  dead 
in  my  coffin  and  him  wantin'  only  me," 
she  said,  "I'd  rise  up  and  boil  my 
lamb's  eggs  for  him." 

But  it  was  not  alone  that  she  sped 
northward  to  that  great  valley  in  the 
mountains,  which  the  Poor  Boy  had 
called  Joyous  Guard,  after  Launcelot's 
domain.  She  took  with  her  the  Poor 
Boy's  butler,  a  man  of  rare  executive 
ability,  and  a  young  architect  for  whom 
the  Poor  Boy  had  had  belief  and  affec- 


10 


THEY    VANISH 

tion.  These  three  camped  out  in  the 
cottage,  and  sent  forth  electric  mes 
sages  to  plumbers,  and  upholsterers, 
and  cabinet-makers.  If  her  boy  was  to 
live  in  a  tiny  stone  cottage,  old  Martha 
would  see  to  it  that  that  cottage  should 
be  a  gem.  She  could  spend  what  she 
pleased.  She  had  been  paid  no  wages 
since  the  Poor  Boy's  coming  of  age. 
Bonds  with  gilt  edges  were  given  to  her 
on  that  day,  deeds  to  two  houses  in 
which  gentlefolk  lived,  and  at  all  the 
stores  where  the  Poor  Boy  had  credit 
she  had  credit,  just  as  his  own  mother 
would  have  had.  She  was  a  rich 
woman  in  her  own  right.  And  the 
young  architect  knew  that,  and  in  his 
heart  was  amazed  at  always  finding 
her  on  the  floor  in  a  lake  of  lather, 
crooning  as  she  scrubbed. 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Martha,"  he  said  once,  "you're  a 
bird.  I  wish  I  'd  met  you  when  7  was 
a  baby." 

And  she  answered: 

"Don't  be  thrackin'  mud  into  the 
study."  And  then,  "Mister  Cotter," 
she  said,  "if  ye  have  a  heart  in  your 
body,  put  it  into  the  furnace  flue.  It 
was  always  a  bad  egg  for  drawin',  and 
betimes  the  snow  will  lie  six  feet  deep 
in  the  valley." 

"I  '11  put  my  heart  and  soul  in  that 
flue,  Martha,  for  your  sake,  and  we  '11 
put  it  to  the  ordeal  by  fire.  But 
who's  to  feed  the  furnace?" 

"Who's  to  feed  the  furnace!"  she 
put  back  her  head  and  laughed.  "Who 
but  love,  young  man?  Love  will  feed 
the  furnace,  press  the  trousers,  and 
clean  the  boots.  There  will  be  no  one 


THEY    VANISH 

to  care  for  him  but  me.  Mind  that. 
No  one  but  old  Martha.  Twenty  year 
I  've  shed  be  the  knowledge.  It 's  no 
mere  woman  ye  behold,  Mister  Cotter, 
't  is  an  army!" 

"By  Jove/'  he  said,  "I  believe 
you." 

And  he  passed  out  with  his  measur 
ing-stick  into  the  bright  sunlight.  And 
there  stood,  drawing  deep  breaths  of 
the  racy  September  air,  and  filling  his 
eyes  almost  to  overflowing  with  the 
magic  beauty  of  the  valley. 

It  spread  away  southward  from  the 
base  of  the  cliff  upon  which  he  stood, 
melting  at  last  into  blue  distance;  an 
open  valley  studded  with  groups  of 
astounding  trees  which  were  all  scar 
let  and  gold.  Mountains,  deep-green, 

purple,  pale-violet,  framed  the  valley, 

13 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

and  through  its  midst  was  flung  a 
bright  blue  necklace  of  long  lakes  and 
serpentine  rivers.  In  the  nearest  and 
largest  lake,  towering  castles  of  white 
cloud  came  continuously  and  went. 
Very  far  off,  browsing  among  lily  pads, 
Mr.  Cotter  could  see  a  cow  moose  and 
her  calf.  And,  high  over  his  head, 
there  passed  presently  a  string  of  black 
duck.  He  could  hear  the  strong  beat 
ing  of  their  wings. 

Mr.  Cotter  was  a  practical  man. 

"Why  the  hell  did  he  do  it?"  he 
mused.  "He  might  have  married,  and 
wanted  a  real  house  in  this  paradise, 
and  told  me  to  go  as  far  as  I  liked. 
He  'd  have  asked  us  all  up  to  stay  — 
and  now,  my  God!  all  it  can  ever  be 
is  a  cage  for  a  jail-bird." 

When  at  last  the  cottage  was  in  ex- 
14 


THEY    VANISH 

quisite  order,  old  Martha  sent  the 
others  away  and  stayed  on  alone.  In 
her  room  she  had  an  elaborate  calen 
dar.  To  each  day  was  tacked  the 
name  of  its  patron  saint. 

The  old  woman  was  religious,  but 
every  night  she  drew  her  pencil  through 
the  name  of  a  saint,  and  the  days 
passed,  and  the  Poor  Boy's  term  in 
prison  drew  swiftly  to  an  end. 

"Monday  week,"  she  said.  "Next 
Monday."  "Day  after  to-morrow." 
"To-morrow."  "O  Father  of  mine 
in  heaven;  O  saints;  O  Mother  heart 
—  to-day!" 


Ill 

OLD  Martha  wondered  if  the  Poor 
Boy  would  have  a  smile  for  her. 
She  imagined  that  he  would  look  sick 
and  broken,  and  that  if  he  smiled  at 
all  it  would  be  the  bitter  smile  of 
the  wronged.  She  imagined  that  he 
would  wear  ready-made  clothes  sup 
plied  by  the  prison  authorities;  and 
that  he  would  no  longer  walk  erect, 
upon  swift  feet,  but  bowed  over,  with 
dragging  steps. 

When  he  came  at  last  what  pro 
foundly  shocked  her  was  none  of  this; 
but  that  to  the  superficial  eye  he  had 
not  changed  at  all.  His  hair,  perhaps, 
was  a  little  shorter  than  she  remem- 

16 


THEY    VANISH 

bered;  his  face  was  not  exactly  pale; 
it  was  more  as  if  he  had  sat  up  too  late, 
and  was  having  an  off  day.  As  for  the 
smile  for  which  she  hoped  and  longed, 
it  began  when  he  saw  her  running 
toward  him,  very  swiftly  for  a  heavy 
old  woman,  and  it  ended  on  her  cheek. 

"My  old  dear!"  he  said. 

He  took  her  hand  and  swung  it  as 
children  do,  and  walked  beside  her 
into  the  cottage. 

The  spickness  and  spanness  of  it 
smote  him  between  the  eyes;  the  im 
agination  and  the  taste  which  had 
changed  it  from  a  hunting-lodge  into  a 
gentleman's  house,  and  the  tact  which 
had  done  away  with  the  photographs 
of  friends,  and  all  things  that  could  re 
mind  him  of  old  days.  He  passed  the 

whole  house  in  review  from  top  to  bot- 
17 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

torn,  and  gratitude  to  the  old  servant 
grew  very  warm  in  the  tired  heart. 

They  stepped  out  from  the  living- 
room  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and 
looked  down  the  great  valley. 

"There  was  no  time,"  said  Martha, 
tremulous  with  joy,  for  she  had  been 
much  praised,  "to  put  the  landscape 
to  rights." 

The  Poor  Boy  looked  up  into  the 
blue  vault  of  heaven. 

"Stone  walls,"  he  said,  "and  that, 
have  been  my  landscape." 

"But  now,"  she  said,  "any  day  you 
like  you  can  view  the  world  from  here 
to  the  North  Pole." 

He  smiled. 

"That  way 's  south,  Martha,"  he 
said,  "but  it  will  do.  We  own  all  the 
way  to  the  ocean  that  way;  but  north 

18 


THEY    VANISH 

only  to  the  lake  where  the  river  rises. 
But  even  that 's  a  day's  travel.  Oh, 
there  's  room  enough  even  for  me,  and 
there  's  a  great  deal  too  much  for  you, 
you  poor  old  dear.  But  have  you  made 
friends  in  the  village?  You  must  have 
them  up  to  see  you,  days  when  I  'm  off 
somewhere  or  other.  And  you  must 
have  a  helper,  I  see  that.  Yes,  you 
must.  If  necessary,  I  '11  face  him,  or 
her.  I  won't  have  you  breaking  down 
with  looking  after  me.  Don't  say  a 
word.  I  know  you.  You  think  it 
would  be  high  jinks  to  wear  your  eyes 
out  and  your  hands  off  for  me,  but  I 
won't  have  it.  The  cottage  is  bigger 
than  I  remember.  But  maybe  you  've 
added  to  it,  you  old  witch." 

He  stepped  to  the  very  edge  of  the 

cliff  and  looked  straight  down,  to  where, 
19 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

two  hundred  feet  below,  the  perpen 
dicular  was  first  broken  by  a  slope  of 
titanic  bowlders,  among  which  the 
trunks  of  dwarfed  pines  twisted  here 
and  there  into  the  light,  from  the  deep- 
buried  soil. 

"How  easy,"  he  thought,  "to  make 
an  end!"x 

A  dozen  feet  away  old  Martha 
fussed  and  fumed,  like  a  hen  over  a 
duckling. 

"Come  back!  Come  back!"  she  said. 

But  the  Poor  Boy  put  on  his  teasing 
face,  and  danced  a  double  shuffle,  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  big  drop.  Then, 
as  suddenly,  the  fun  went  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  he  came  back. 

"Oh,  Martha,"  he  said,  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  "I  am  so  tired." 

Upon   the  great   leather  lounge   in 


THEY    VANISH 

front  of  the  living-room  fire,  he  lay 
down.  His  ankles  crossed,  his  hands 
crossed,  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling,  he 
looked  like  those  effigies  of  knights 
which  you  have  seen  on  tombs. 

His  eyes  closed.  He  could  hear  her, 
dimly,  putting  wood  on  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  must  have 
help.  I  see  that,"  the  handsome  mouth 
smiled;  "'only  I  don't  really  see  it, 
said  Alice,"1  he  went  on,  "'because 
my  eyes  are  closed,  and  I  am  falling 
so  fast  into  a  deep  dark  well  that  the 
white  rabbit  will  never,  never  catch  up 
with  me/  Bet  you  a  box  of  candy, 
Martha,  you  can't  pry  my  eyes  open 
with  a  crowbar." 

For  a  long  time  the  old  woman  dared 
not  move,  for  fear  her  boots  might 
creak.  She  continually  wiped  her  eyes 


21 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  rather 
than  snuffle,  heroically  endured  a  run 
ning  nose. 

He  had  grown  up  in  her  care.  Be 
tween  herself  and  nature  it  was  always 
a  close  race  as  to  which  should  be  the 
first  to  know  his  needs.  But  even  to 
a  stranger  it  must  now  have  been  ob 
vious  that  he  had  not  slept  well  for 
a  long  time.  His  face,  having  passed 
from  under  the  control  of  his  intel 
lect,  was  haggard  and  harassed,  the 
muscles  of  expression  twitched  and 
jumped.  The  hands  upon  his  breast, 
their  fingers  interlocked,  strained,  and 
twisted. 

A  shoe  creaked,  a  strong,  cool  hand 
lay  lightly  on  the  Poor  Boy's  forehead. 
He  became  quiet,  one  by  one  his  mus 
cles  went  into  a  state  of  complete  re- 


22 


THEY    VANISH 

laxation;  he  breathed  now  with  long, 
slow  breaths.  An  hour  passed. 

The  hand  was  lifted  from  his  fore 
head,  two  shoes  creaked  a  number  of 
times,  there  was  a  rustling  of  heavy 
curtains,  four  times  repeated;  at  each 
rustling  the  room  grew  darker.  A  door 
closing  sounded  faintly.  The  Poor 
Boy  slept  on.  But  for  his  breathing 
you  might  have  thought  him  dead, 
flat  on  his  back,  ankles  crossed,  hands 
peacefully  folded. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night  when 
he  waked. 

"Martha." 

The  old  woman  was  there,  crouched 
between  the  lounge  and  the  fire.  God 
knew  how  her  poor  bones  ached.  The 
Poor  Boy  would  never  know. 

"Yes,  dearie." 

23 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Put  your  arms  around  me  like  old 
times  and  tell  me  you  know  I  didn't 
do  it." 

There  arose  in  the  room,  like  sad 
music,  the  sound  of  the  old  woman's 
sobbing. 

"I  'm  so  tired,"  said  the  Poor  Boy, 
"and  so  glad." 

This  time  he  slept  till  morning. 


IV 

TT^OR  many  days  it  appeared  as  if 
-*-  the  Poor  Boy's  entire  efforts  were 
directed  into  an  attempt  to  sleep  off 
his  troubles.  Experience  was  like  a 
drug  of  which  he  could  not  rid  himself; 
he  waked,  tried  to  read,  tried  to  walk, 
tried  to  enjoy  looking  out  over  the  val 
ley,  and  soon  gave  it  up,  and  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  or  on  the  big  lounge 
in  the  living-room.  And  these  days,  of 
course,  so  the  pendulum  swings,  were 
followed  by  days  and  nights  in  which 
he  could  not  sleep  at  all. 

But  old  Martha  was  not  worried, 
though  she  pretended  to  be.     It  was 

natural  that  having  slept  too  much  he 

25 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

should  now  sleep  too  little.  She  pre 
scribed  exercise  and  usefulness.  One 
day  she  made  him  wash  all  the  dishes, 
and  prune  all  the  rose-vines,  and  tie 
them  in  readiness  for  straw  jackets 
when  winter  should  set  in,  and  she 
made  him  split  wood  in  the  cellar,  and 
after  dinner  she  made  him  go  to  the 
piano  and  play  Irish  music  for  her  un 
til  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 
Then  she  ordered  him  under  a  cold 
shower,  and  when  he  was  in  bed  she 
pulled  up  a  chair,  and  told  him  the 
longest  and  dullest  story  she  knew  — 
"The  Banshee  of  Kilmanogg."  And 
behold  he  slept,  and  was  wakened  by 
birds  in  the  ivy  who  were  talking  over 
their  plans  for  going  south  for  the 
winter. 

The  Poor  Boy  opened  his  rested  eyes 

26 


THEY    VANISH 

and  listened  to  the  birds.  There  were 
some  who  intended  to  travel  by  the  sea 
board  air-line,  others  by  the  midland 
air-line;  for  the  most  part  they  were 
going  to  Florida  and  the  Gulf  States  for 
the  cold  months;  but  a  certain  robin 
and  his  wife,  tempted  by  the  memory 
of  crumbs  and  suet  which  a  wise  and 
wonderful  old  lady  always  put  out  for 
them,  had  determined  to  winter  at 
Aiken  in  the  holly-tree  that  stood  by 
the  old  lady's  window.  There  were 
comparisons  of  resorts  and  disputes 
about  them. 

In  the  party  were  young  birds  who 
had  never  been  south  at  all.  And  a 
certain  old  bachelor  bird  amused  him 
self  very  heartily  at  the  expense  of 
these.  He  did  not  dwell  upon  the 

beauty  of  the  journey  that  was  before 

27 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

them,  but  upon  its  inconveniences,  its 
dangers,  and  its  horrors. 

"The  midland  route  would  be  all 
right/'  he  said,  "if  it  weren't  for  the 
farmers'  boys  with  their  long  guns  and 
the  —  ever  see  a  cat,  Bub?" 

"No,"  twittered  Bub  nervously. 
"Don't  expect  to.  I'm  for  the  sea 
board." 

"That  would  be  sense,"  said  the  old 
bachelor,  "if  it  weren't  for  the  Statue 
of  Liberty." 

"The  what?" 

"It 's  a  big  light  —  you  never  know 
just  what  it  is,  because  when  you  fly 
into  it  to  see,  it  breaks  your  neck  and 
all  the  other  worthless  bones  in  your 
body." 

"  I  'm   not   agoing   to   fly  into  any 

light." 

28 


THEY    VANISH 

"You  think  you  won't,"  said  the 
bachelor  ominously.  "But  first  your 
brains  will  scatter  figuratively,  and 
then  —  literally.  Too  bad !  —  too  bad ! " 

All  the  young  birds  shuddered. 

"Those  big  snakes  in  the  South  are 
rather  nasty  things,  too,"  continued  the 
bachelor  bird.  "I  'm  used  to  them,  of 
course,  and  I  Ve  proved  dozens  of 
times  that  there  's  no  such  thing  as 
hypnotism;  but  the  effect  of  a  snake's 
eye  on  very  young  and  inexperienced 
birds  is  inconceivable,  and  not  to  be 
reconciled  to  the  Darwinian  theory  or 
Mendel's  law.  What  between  snakes, 
hawks,  and  women's  hats,  the  life  of 
a  bird  —  " 

"Isn't  what  it  used  to  be." 

The  bachelor  turned  upon  his  inter 
rupter  and  scowled. 
29 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"On  the  contrary/'  he  said,  "it 's  ex 
actly  what  it  used  to  be.  And  that 's  the 
—  ahem  —  of  it!  Pardon  me,  ladies." 

"When  do  you  start?"  he  was  asked. 

"Not  for  a  week,"  he  answered 
pompously.  "I  have  several  little 
odds  and  ends  to  look  into  first  - 
And  right  in  the  midst  of  his  speech 
the  call  of  the  South  hit  him  in  the 
middle,  you  may  say.  It  always  does 
hit  a  bird  like  that,  and  it  is  conta 
gious  like  girls  fainting  in  a  factory. 

The  cynical  bachelor  flew  suddenly 
to  the  tipmost  top  of  a  tree,  and  poured 
forth  the  whole  of  his  heart  and  soul 
in  a  song  of  the  South.  "I  Ve  got  to 
go  —  I  Ve  got  to  go,"  he  sang: 

"For  it's  there  that  I  must  be, 
Where  the  flower  of  the  pomegranate  blazes 
In  the  top  of  the  pomegranate  tree. 
30 


THEY    VANISH 

"And  as  for  the  dangers  of  travel, 
I  'd  laugh  —  if  I  hadn't  to  sing. 
For  a  gale  is  a  silly  old  zephyr 
And  a  bird  is  a  wonderful  thing, 
A  wonderful,  wonderful,  wonderful,  wonder 
ful,  wonderful,  wonderful  thing." 

Two  more  verses  he  sang  at  the  top 
of  his  lungs,  broke  off  short  with  a 
shrill  cry  of  joy,  and  took  wing. 

Then  the  south-sickness  spread,  and 
even  the  young  birds  flew  to  the  tops 
of  trees,  and  defied  gales,  snakes,  the 
Statue  of  Liberty,  the  boy  with  the 
gun,  and  the  female  (you  wouldn't 
call  her  a  woman)  with  the  untrimmed 
hat.  And  away  they  flew,  in  ones  and 
twos,  until  there  were  only  a  few  left. 
One  of  these  hopped  on  the  window- 
sill  in  full  view,  and  told  the  Poor  Boy 
to  get  up. 

"Don't  be  setting  such  an  example 
31 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

of  sloth/5  she  said,  and  squeaked  at 
her  own  temerity  and  flew  away. 

The  Poor  Boy  leaped  from  bed,  and 
flung  his  pajamas  afar,  and  rushed  for 
cold  water. 

The  shower  fell  heavily  with  won 
drous  iciness,  and  the  Poor  Boy  sang 
aloud  and  praised  God,  who  had  once 
more  returned  him  the  gift  of  seeing 
and  hearing.  At  breakfast  he  told 
Martha,  and  with  the  utmost  gravity 
repeated  to  her  everything  that  the 
birds  had  said  —  for  him. 


power  of  imagining  returned 
to  him  slowly.  There  were  whole 
days  when  his  inner  eyes  and  ears  re 
mained  obstinately  blind  and  deaf. 
When  a 

"Primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more" 

(only  there  were  no  primroses  at  this 
season) ;  when  the  southing  birds  in 
the  ivy  outside  his  window  only  made 
noises  and  were  a  nuisance;  and  when 
the  burden  of  his  thoughts  was  one 
long  "  done  for  —  done  for  —  done 
for."  It  was  the  affection  of  many 

33 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

people  that  he  missed  most,  and  the 
faith  that  so  many  people  had  had 
in  him  —  shattered  forever.  But  he 
missed  their  voices,  too,  and  their 
faces;  the  cheerful  sounds  of  "talking 
at  once";  the  massing  of  fresh,  lovely 
gowns,  the  scintillation  of  jewels,  the 
smell  of  gardenias,  the  music  of  violins, 
hidden  by  screens  of  palms  and  bay- 
trees. 

What  had  he  done  to  deserve  exile 
and  ostracism?  He  asked  himself  that 
question  thousands  of  times.  He  knew, 
of  course,  what  he  was  believed  to  have 
done,  but  he  was  in  search  of  some  com 
mitted  sin,  to  account  for  his  having 
been  punished  for  one  that  had  only 
been  circumstantially  alleged.  And  in 
the  whole  memory  that  he  had  of  his 
life  and  acts  he  could  not  find  an 

34 


THEY    VANISH 

answer.  Every  life  is  full  of  little  sins, 
but  of  major  ones  the  Poor  Boy  had  no 
recollection. 

On  the  days  when  his  imagination 
was  "no  good"  he  had  the  face  of  one 
who  is  worried  over  something  im 
portant  that  has  been  lost  and  that 
can  not  be  found.  And,  indeed,  the 
gift  was  of  tremendous  importance 
to  him,  and  he  knew  it.  It  was  the 
weapon  with  which  he  must  fight  off 
insanity;  the  tongs  with  which  he  must 
snatch  from  the  fires  of  experience 
whatever  bright  fragments  of  life  were 
not  yet  consumed. 

Now  this  imagination  of  the  Poor 
Boy's  was  not  a  servant  that  came  and 
went  at  command,  but  a  master.  He 
could  not  say  to  himself,  "now  I  will 
lie  back  upon  the  wings  of  my  imagi- 

35 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

nation  and  fly  a  pleasant  hour"  —  or 
rather  he  could  say  just  that  if  he 
liked,  but  nothing  would  happen.  It 
was  he  who  served;  he  was  an  abode 
in  which  his  imagination  might  lodge 
whenever  it  so  pleased,  and  whence  it 
might  also  fare  forth.  In  the  old  days 
it  had  found  lodgment  in  the  Poor 
Boy's  head  decidedly  comfortable,  and 
had  made  long  stays;  but  since  soci 
ety  had  wreaked  its  vengeance  upon 
him,  it  seemed  as  if  his  head,  as  a  dwell 
ing-place,  had  lost  its  comforts  and 
advantages. 

His  imagination  was  not  of  the  kind 
which  makes  for  literature  or  music. 
It  could  not,  in  other  words,  shake  it 
self  clear  of  experience,  and  journey 
into  the  unknown  and  the  untried.  It 

was  not  creative,  but  it  was  of  a  qual- 
36 


THEY    VANISH 

ity  so  intense  and  vivid  as  to  wage, 
sometimes,  successful  disputes  with  the 
tangible  and  the  real.  Its  action  was 
a  kind  of  dreaming  of  dreams,  whose 
direction  and  outcome  lay  within  the 
option  of  the  dreamer. 

Old  Martha  found  him  one  day  sit 
ting  on  the  kitchen  steps  with  his  feet 
in  the  first  snow  of  the  winter.  But 
the  Poor  Boy  was  really  at  Palm  Beach 
with  a  car-load  of  his  friends,  and  he 
was  not  at  all  cold,  he  thanked  her,  but 
hot — positively  hot. 

Notwithstanding,  she  ordered  a 
change  of  shoes  and  socks,  and  lis 
tened  at  his  door  half  a  dozen  times 
that  night  for  sounds  of  incipient  cold. 

The  old  woman's  mirror  told  her 
that  she  was  getting  thin,  that  the 
work  she  had  undertaken  was  too  hard 

37 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

for  her,  and  sometimes  when  the  men 
drove  in  from  the  village  with  supplies 
(and  the  Poor  Boy  hid  himself)  she 
blarneyed  them  into  lending  a  hand 
here  and  there.  For  a  good  joke 
sweetened  with  a  little  base  flattery 
she  got  coals  carried  now  and  then,  or 
heavy  pieces  of  furniture  moved  when 
she  was  house-cleaning;  but  to  the 
Poor  Boy's  constant  appeals  that  she 
bring  into  the  house  a  permanent 
helper  she  turned  a  deaf  ear.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  having  lived  the  best 
part  of  her  life  for  the  Poor  Boy,  she 
proposed,  if  possible,  to  die  for  him. 

But  when  ("on  top  of  the  thinness," 
as  he  put  it)  she  caught  a  heavy  cold, 
he  took  the  matter  in  dispute  wholly 
out  of  her  jurisdiction. 

The  cold  having  run  its  course  and 
38 


THEY    VANISH 

gone  its  way,  he  appeared  to  her  one 
morning  dressed  for  the  winter  woods. 
He  had  on  moccasins  and  many  thick 
nesses  of  woollens ;  he  carried  a  knap 
sack  and  a  light  axe.  He  laid  these 
on  the  kitchen  table,  and  went  into  the 
cellar,  where  his  long  skis  had  passed 
the  summer.  He  brought  them,  turn 
ing  the  corner  of  the  cellar  stairs  with 
difficulty,  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  be 
gan  to  examine  the  straps  with  which 
they  are  adjusted  to  the  feet.  He 
asked  for  a  little  oil  with  which  to 
dress  the  leather.  She  brought  him 
oil  in  a  saucer. 

He  dressed  the  straps  of  his  skis  and 
talked,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 

"Killing  is  bad,  but  in  case  I  do 
actually  run  out  of  food  I  'd  better 
take  a  rifle.  I  suppose  the  sleeping- 

39 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

bag  will  keep  me  warm,  still  I  'd  take 
along  an  extra  blanket  if  it  weren't  so 
heavy.  I  'm  not  as  fit  as  I  used  to  be. 
Seems  to  me  this  compass  acted  queerly 
the  last  time  I  used  it.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  once,  Martha,  about  getting  lost 
up  here  because  a  compass  played  me 
tricks?  There  were  people  to  find  me 
that  time  —  but  what's  the  odds?  I 
can't  get  lost  twice  on  my  own  acres. 
And  what 's  the  odds  if  I  do?  -  -  " 

Old  Martha  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer. 

"Is  it  for  fun  you  're  scaring  me  out 
of  my  wits,  young  man?" 

"Scaring  you,  Martha?"  His  face 
was  innocent  of  any  guile. 

"Where  do  you  think  you  're  going, 
and  when  do  you  think  you  're  comin' 

back  —  and  me  all  alone  in  the  house?" 

40 


THEY    VANISH 

Now  his  eyes  gleamed  way  down  in 
their  brown  depths  with  a  spark  apiece 
of  malice. 

"I  don't  know  where  I  'm  going," 
he  said,  "but  I  know  that  I  'm  not 
coming  back  until  a  little  bird  tells  me 
that  you  have  hired  some  one  to  help 
you  with  the  housework." 

She  was  furious. 

"Faith,  then,"  she  said,  "you  '11  not 
come  back  till  Doom's  Day." 

He  concluded  his  preparations  in 
silence,  and  carried  his  skis  outdoors 
to  put  them  on. 

"I  say,  Martha,"  he  called,  "hand 
me  my  pack  and  things,  will  you?" 

"I  will  not." 

He  laughed,  and  managed,  with  more 
laughter  and  some  peril,  to  come  up  the 

steps  and  into  the  kitchen  on  his  skis. 
41 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

He  adjusted  the  pack  to  his  shoulder, 
put  on  his  mittens,  and  took  up  his 
rifle  and  his  axe.  Malice  still  gleamed 
in  his  eyes. 

He  went  out  as  he  had  entered,  but 
with  more  difficulty  and  peril.  He 
crossed  the  kitchen-yard  with  long, 
easy  strides. 

But  Martha  was  running  after  him, 
bareheaded.  She  lost  a  carpet  slipper 
in  the  deep  snow. 

"Only  come  back,  darlint "  -she 
fought  against  tears --"and  I'll  fill 
the  house  with  helpers  from  attic  to 
cellar." 

"One,"  said  the  Poor  Boy  judicially, 
"will  do.  The  nearest  employment 
bureau  will  be  in  Quebec.  Isn't  there 
somebody  in  the  village?" 

"In  the  village!     In  Quebec!" 

42 


"Only  come  back,  darlint" — she  fought  against  tears — "and  I'll 
fill  the  house  with  helpers  from  attic  to  cellar." 


THEY    VANISH 

Her  indignation  was  tremendous. 

"This  side  of  New  York  there  's  not 
a  gentleman's  servant  to  be  had,"  said 
she,  "and  but  few  there.  I  '11  have 
to  go  meself." 

"Couldn't  you  write?" 

"  Full  well  you  know  that  I  can  only 
make  me  mark,  and  never  the  twicet 
alike." 

"Well,"  said  the  Poor  Boy,  "the 
change  will  do  you  good,  and  I  '11 
camp  out  in  the  house  instead  of  in 
the  woods  till  you  come  back.  It  will 
be  easier,  and  ever  so  much  safer." 

The  next  day,  looking  very  grand 
in  her  furs  and  feathers,  old  Martha 
started  for  New  York.  As  the  man 
from  the  village  drove  her  through  the 
woods  to  the  little  railroad  station  the 
tears  froze  on  her  veil. 

43 


VI 


Martha  was  longer  in  New 
York  than  she  had  intended  to 
be.  There  were  plenty  of  servants 
out  of  work  on  the  lists  of  the  various 
employment  agencies  which  she  vis 
ited.  But  Martha's  requirements  were 
such  as  the  average  servant  can  not 
meet  or  will  not  face,  and  candidates 
for  the  place  and  wages  she  offered 
asked  questions  and  were  not  satisfied 
with  her  answers. 

"And  where  is  the  house?" 

"Canada." 

"Is  it  a  city?" 

"It's  country." 

"Are  there  neighbors?" 

44 


THEY    VANISH 

"No." 

"What  manner  of  man  is  the  mas 
ter?" 

"A  fine,  kind  man." 

"Married?" 

"Single." 

"An  old  man?" 

"A  young  man.  But  you  '11  not  see 
the  master." 

"Me  work  for  a  man  I  don't  see?" 

"He  don't  see  nobody  but  me." 

"What  ails  him?" 

"Nothing.  Tis  his  way.  He  's  shy 
o'  people." 

"There'll  be  no  company,  then?" 

"None." 

"What  men  will  there  be  to  help 
about  the  place?" 

"The  men  that  drive  in  from  the 
village  with  supplies." 

45 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"How  far  off  is  the  village?" 

"Twelve  miles.  When  they  can't 
drive  they  come  in  on  snow-shoes." 

"Hum!" 

"What  more  can  I  tell  you?" 

"You  Ve  told  enough.  I  would  not 
touch  the  place  with  a  pole,  not  for 
twice  the  wages.  I  'd  rather  be  dead 
than  twelve  miles  from  everywhere 
and  never  a  man  in  the  house." 

Girls  who  seemed  able  and  willing 
wouldn't  go,  two  were  willing  to  try 
the  place  for  a  month,  but  Martha  did 
not  like  their  faces  or  their  voices. 
She  was  in  despair,  until  one  day,  far 
from  any  employment  agency,  a  chance 
meeting  settled  the  matter. 

"Why,  Martha!" 

"If  it  isn't  Miss  Joy!" 

And  for  a  moment  old  Martha  was 
46 


THEY    VANISH 

dazed,  for  except  in  the  pursuit  of 
sport,  tennis  or  golf,  Miss  Joceylin 
Grey  was  not  the  sort  of  girl  who  is 
met  walking.  And  here  she  was  cross 
ing  Madison  Square  on  the  long  diag 
onal,  in  shoes  that  had  not  been  blacked 
that  day,  and  furthermore  she  was  not 
headed  for  the  avenue  but  away  from 
it,  and  dusk  was  descending  upon  the 
city.  And  furthermore  the  color  that 
had  been  her  chiefest  glory  in  the  old 
Palm  Beach  and  Newport  days  was 
all  gone,  and  she  looked  very  thin  and 
delicate,  and  tired  and  discouraged. 
And  where,  oh  where,  were  the  gar 
denias  that  she  always  wore  during  the 
time  of  year  when  they  are  rarest  and 
most  expensive?  Where  even  were 
the  child's  gloves,  old  Martha  asked 
herself,  her  sables?  Her  pearls? 

47 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Why,  Miss  Joy,"  she  exclaimed, 
"you  look  as  if  your  father  had  lost 
every  cint  he  had  in  the  world." 

The  girl  flushed  uneasily,  but  her 
eyes  did  not  fall  from  the  old  woman's. 

"Everybody  knows  that,  Martha. 
Where  have  you  been?" 

"Stone  deaf,"  said  Martha,  "among 
me  own  sorrows.  But  you  're  all  in 
black." 

"I  lost  my  father,  too." 

Old  Martha  made  a  soft,  crooning 
sound  of  pity. 

"So,"  and  Miss  Joy  tried  to  speak 
bravely.  "I  live  all  alone  now,  and  — " 

"Have  ye  no  money?" 

"Not  a  penny,  Martha.  I  had  a 
job  as  a  reporter  until  they  asked  me 
to  do  things  that  I  wouldn't  do." 

"And  when  did  you  lose  this  job?" 
48 


THEY    VANISH 

"Day  before  yesterday." 

"And  now?" 

"Oh,  something  will  turn  up." 

"Meaning  that  nothing  has." 

"Not  yet."  She  was  beginning  to 
shiver  with  the  cold.  "Good-by, 
Martha,  it 's  good  to  see  you  again, 
and  I  could  stand  here  talking  till  all 
hours  if  it  wasn't  for  the  wind." 

She  had  given  both  her  hands  to 
Martha,  but  this  one  would  not  let 
them  go.  Her  fine,  gentle,  old  face 
became  set  and  obstinate. 

"When  did  you  eat  last?" 

The  girl  smiled  wanly  and  shiv 
ered. 

She  felt  her  arm  being  drawn 
through  Martha's.  She  felt  herself 
pulled  rapidly  toward  the  avenue. 

Martha,  satisfied  with  the  face  of  a 

49 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

passing  taxicab's  driver,  whistled  with 
sudden,  piercing  shrillness. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?" 

Old  Martha's  eyes  became  humor 
ous.  It  was  pleasant  to  her  to  play 
fairy  godmother  to  a  millionaire's 
daughter. 

"To  me  suite  in  the  St.  Savior,"  said 
she.  "To  a  hot  tub,  dearie,  and  a  hot 
dinner,  and  a  warm  bed." 

In  Martha's  sitting-room  were 
flowers.  She  could  afford  them.  On 
the  bureau  in  her  bedroom  was  a 
large  photograph  of  the  Poor  Boy,  in 
an  eighteen-carat  gold  frame,  very 
plain  and  smart. 

While  Martha  was  undoing  the 
hooks  of  her  dress  Miss  Joy  stood  in 
front  of  the  bureau  and  looked  at  this 

photograph. 

so 


THEY    VANISH 

"Poor  Boy,"  she  said  presently. 

"What's  that?"  said  Martha. 

"What 's  become  of  him,  Martha?" 

Martha  told  her. 

"It  was  all  so  wicked,"  said  the 
girl. 

"Wicked,"  said  Martha,  "was  no 
name  for  it.  All  his  friends  to  believe 
he'd  do  a  thing  like  that!  I  could 
skin  them  alive,  the  lot  of  them!" 

"I  was  one  of  his  friends,  Martha." 

"I  make  no  war  on  women,"  said 
Martha. 

"I  say  I  was  one  of  his  friends  — 
but  I  never  believed  he  did  it  —  I 
mean  how  could  he,  and  why  should 
he?" 

"Perhaps  you  wrote  to  tell  him  you 
believed  in  him!" 

"I  wish  I  had,"  said  the  girl,  "but 
51 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

I  thought  everybody  would,  and  then 
you  know  we  had  a  sort  of  a  misunder 
standing;  and  I  was  going  to,  and  then 
my  father's  troubles  got  so  bad  that 
he  couldn't  hide  them  from  me,  and 
we  used  to  talk  them  over  all  night 
sometimes,  and  I  couldn't  think  about 
anybody  else's  troubles.  —  Is  he  up 
there  all  alone?" 

"There  's  the  last  hook.  And  now 
I  '11  draw  a  tub." 

Miss  Joy  undressed  herself  to  the 
music  of  water  roaring  under  high 
pressure  into  a  deep  porcelain  tub.  She 
was  no  longer  hungry,  for  she  had  had 
a  glass  of  milk  on  arriving  at  the  hotel, 
but  she  was  very  tired  and  a  little 
dizzy  in  her  head. 

As  is  the  custom  with  girls  who  have 

been  brought  up  with  maids  to  dress 
52 


THEY    VANISH 

and  undress  them,  she  flung  her  clothes 
upon  a  chair  in  a  disorderly  heap,  and 
was  no  more  embarrassed  at  being 
naked  before  Martha  than  if  Martha 
had  been  a  piece  of  furniture. 

"Come  and  talk  to  me,  Martha," 
she  said,  "while  I  soak." 

So  Martha  sat  by  the  tub  as  by  a 
bedside,  and  Miss  Joy  with  a  sigh  of 
comfort  lay  at  length  in  the  hot  water 
and  they  talked. 

"Is  he  up  there  all  alone?" 

"He  is  now.  The  housework  was 
too  heavy  for  one  old  woman.  He  sent 
me  to  New  York  to  find  a  helper.  But 
the  wages  don't  make  up  for  the  lone 
liness  in  the  young  biddy's  mind  —  in 
what  she  is  plazed  to  call  her  mind  - 
and  I  'm  five  days  lookin'  about  and 
nothing  done." 

S3 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Wages?"  sighed  Miss  Joy.  "They 
sound  good  to  me." 

uTo  think  of  wages  sounding  good 
to  you,  Miss  Joy!" 

"  But  they  do.  I  'd  do  almost  any 
thing  for  money." 

"Ye  would  not,  Miss  Joy." 

"You  don't  know  me." 

"I  know  well  that  you  could  'a'  had 
Mr.  Ludlow  for  the  taking,  and  him 
nearly  as  rich  as  me  Poor  Boy." 

"So  I  could,"  said  Miss  Joy,  "and 
perhaps  I  shall  marry  him  after  all." 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Martha.  "  Mar 
ry  that  old  devil !  Tell  me  ye  'd  sooner 
starve  —  or  —  get  out  of  me  tub,  and 
take  yourself  off!" 

Old  Martha  rose  hurriedly  with  a 
squeak  of  dismay,  and  rushed  to  close 
the  door  between  the  bedroom  and 

54 


THEY    VANISH 

the  sitting-room.  She  returned  breath 
ing  fast. 

"They  were  knocking  with  the  din 
ner,"  she  explained,  "and  all  the  doors 
open !  Ye  've  soaked  long  enough, 
deary.  Come  out." 

"Not  until  you  say  that  you  know 
I  wouldn't  marry  Mr.  Ludlow  to  save 
me  from  drowning." 

"Full  well  I  know  it,"  said  Martha 
heartily.  "Come  out." 

The  girl  came  out  of  the  tub  re 
luctantly,  and  presently,  swathed  in 
Martha's  best  lavender  dressing-gown 
(she  had  bought  it  that  morning),  was 
lifting  a  spoonful  of  clear  green-turtle 
soup  to  her  lips. 

"Martha!" 

"Miss  Joy!" 

"I  see  champagne." 

55 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"  'Tis    not   only    to   look    at,    Miss 

Joy." 

"It's  wonderful,"  said  Miss  Joy, 
"starving  —  I  meet  you  —  champagne 
—  and  to-morrow  —  " 

Her  sudden  high  spirits  suddenly  fell. 

"Oh,  Martha,  from  the  top  of  even 
a  small  tree  to  the  ground  is  a  cruel, 
hard  fall!" 

"We  were  speakin'  of  wages,  Miss 
Joy.  And  of  a  certain  young  lady 
willin'  to  do  almost  anything  for  money. 
Will  ye  come  back  to  the  woods  with 
me  to  help  with  the  housework?" 

"Oh,  but  Martha  —  it  wouldn't  do. 
It  isn't  as  if  I  'd  never  known  him  - 
but  we  were  such  good  friends  —  and 
it  would  all  be  too  uncomfortable  and 
embarrassing." 

"Ye'd  never  see  him.  Miss  Joy." 
56 


THEY    VANISH 

"Never  see  him!" 

"  He  will  look  no  one  in  the  face  but 
me.  The  faces  that  he  loved  are  night 
mares  to  him  now  —  all  but  old  Mar 
tha's.  No,  Miss  Joy  --ye  might,  peep- 
in'  from  behind  curtains,  set  eyes  on 
me  Poor  Boy,  but  as  for  you,  he  'd  not 
know  if  you  was  man  or  woman,  old 
or  young,  unless  I  told  him.  He  has 
his  rules;  when  the  men  come  in  from 
the  village  he  disappears  like  a  ghost. 
When  they  have  gone  he  comes  back. 
There  'd  be  hours  for  housework,  when 
he  'd  be  out  of  the  way,  and  that  there 
was  a  born  lady  helping  old  Martha  out 
and  kapin'  the  poor  woman  company 
—  he  'd  never  know  —  never  at  all." 

"Hum,"  said  Miss  Joy  to  the  bub 
bles  in  her  glass  of  champagne. 

"The  life,"  said  Martha,  "will  bring 

57 


IF    YOU    TOUCH    THEM 

back  the  color  to  your  cheeks,  the  flesh 
to  your  bones,  the  courage  to  your 
heart." 

"Am  I  so  dreadfully  thin?" 
"If  I  was  that  thin,"  said  Martha, 
"I  'd  hate  to  have  me  best  friends  see 
me  without  me   clothes.     But  ye  Ve 
the  makings  of  a  Vanus,  and   that 's 
more  than  ever  I  had." 
Miss  Joy  laughed  aloud. 
Then,  after  a  silence,  and  very  seri 
ously:  "You're  sure  he'd  never  know 
that  I  was  in  the  house?" 
"Not  unless  I  told  him." 
"But  you  wouldn't  tell  him?" 
"Not  if  he  hitched  wild  horses  to  me 
sacret  and  lashed  them." 
Another  thoughtful  silence. 
"There  's  just  one  thing,  Martha," 
said  Miss  Joy,  "that  I  won't  do." 
58 


THEY    VANISH 

Martha  flung  up  her  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  despair. 

"That's  what  they  all  say!"  she 
cried.  "That 's  how  they  all  get  out 
o'  comin'.  Well,  what  is  it  that  ye 
won't  do?" 

Miss  Joy  hated  to  say.  She  was  a 
little  ashamed.  She  had  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  being  a  good  sport,  a 
girl  whom  it  was  hard  to  dare.  But 
she  had  her  weakness. 

"I  won't,"  she  said,  "I  won't  — I 
can't  —  bring  myself  to  touch  a  live 
lobster." 

Old  Martha's  face  became  extremely 
grave.  She  leaned  forward.  She  was 
all  confidence. 

"  Deary,"  she  said, "  nor  more  can  I. " 

The  two  women  exploded  into  laugh 
ter,  loud  and  prolonged. 

59 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Joy  at  last,  and 
she  was  still  laughing,  "it 's  a  sporting 
proposition.  .  .  .  When  do  we  start?" 
"Ye  must  have  warm  clothes  first." 
"I  have  no  money,  Martha." 
"Do  ye  remember  a  house  ye  took 
one  winter,  while  your  poor  father  was 
tearin'  out  the  innerds  of  his  own?" 
"On  Park  Avenue  and--" 
"The  same,"   said   Martha.     "The 
northwest  corner.     Ye  were  my  ten 
ants  that  winter.  .  .  .  Yes,  deary,  I  am 
a  rich  old  woman.     And,  between  you 
and  me,  your  poor  father  wanted  that 
house  the  worst  way,  and  me  agents 
stuck  him  good  and  plenty.     There  's 
a    balance    comin'    to   ye,    Miss   Joy. 
Tis  what  they  call  conscience  money, 
and  'twill  buy  ye  warm  clothes,  and 

maybe  a  bit  jool  to  go  at  your  throat." 
60 


THEY    VANISH 

"Martha — Martha,  what  makes  you 
so  good  to  me?" 

"Have  ye  not  said  ye  never  believed 
that  me  Poor  Boy  did  what  they  said 
he  did?" 

"Is  that  the  only  reason?" 

" There 's  another,"  said  Martha. 
"For  in  all  the  world,  next  to  his, 
ye  Ve  the  swatest  face  and  way  with 
yez." 

The  old  woman's  emotions  rose,  and 
her  brogue  became  heavier  and  heavier 
upon  her,  until  her  words  lost  all  sem 
blance  of  meaning.  And  Miss  Joy, 
warm  and  well  fed,  leaned  back  in 
her  deep  chair  and  listened  and  tried 
to  understand,  and  looked  into  Mar 
tha's  face  with  eyes  that  were  dark 
and  misty  with  tenderness. 

And  she  slept  that  night  and    late 

61 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

into  the  next  morning,  without  stir 
ring.  And  when  she  waked  there  was 
already  a  little  flicker  of  color  in  her 
pale  face. 


VII 

"TTTELL,  Martha,"  said  the  Poor 
*  *     Boy,  when  he  had  kissed  her 

and  welcomed  her  back,  "did  you  find 

some  one  to  help  you?" 

"She's    a    plain    old    thing,"    said 

Martha,  "but  honest  and  with  good 

references.     Would  ye  care  to  see  her 

for  yourself?" 

"Good  God,  no,"  said  the  Poor  Boy. 

"As  long  as  I  live  I  don't  want  to  see 

any  one  but  you.     Tell  her,  will  you? 

See  that  she  understands.    Tell  her- 

gently,  so  as  not  to  hurt  her  feelings, 

but  firmly,  that  she  has  only  to  show 
63 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

herself  to  be  dismissed.     The  day  I 
see  her  —  she  goes." 

"  She  '11   not   thank  you,"   said   old 
Martha.     "Ye  may  safely  leave  that 


to  me." 


"And  if  she  isn't  a  real  help  to  you, 
Martha,  she  goes.  Another  thing,  I  'd 
rather  she  didn't  talk  very  loud  or  sing, 
if  she  can  help  it.  I  don't  want  to 
know  that  she  Js  here." 

To  Martha's  discerning  and  suspi 
cious  eyes  the  Poor  Boy  seemed  nerv 
ous,  ill  at  ease,  and  eager  to  be  off 
somewhere.  He  was  dressed  for  deep 
snow-going,  and  kept  swinging  his  mit 
tens  by  the  wrists  and  beating  them 
together.  He  stood  much  on  one  foot 
and  much  on  the  other. 

"What's  vexing  you?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he   said.     "I've  found 
64 


THEY    VANISH 

something  off  here,"  he  waved  toward 
the  valley,  "  that  amuses  me  —  just  a 
silly  game,  Martha,  that  goes  on  in 
my  head.  The  minute  I  get  out  of 
sight  of  the  house  it  begins.  It 's  done 
it  every  day  since  you  left." 

"What  kind  of  a  game  will  that 
be?" 

"It's  just  making  believe,"  he  said 
with  a  certain  embarrassment,  "pre 
tending  things  —  and  it  makes  me  for 
get  other  things.  I  '11  be  back  by 
dark." 

He  literally  bolted,  and  could  be 
heard  saying  sharp  things  to  the  straps 
of  his  skis,  which  had  become  stiffened 
with  the  cold. 

Old  Martha  stood  for  a  while  star 
ing  at  the  door  which  he  had  closed 

behind  him.     She  wondered  if  by  any 
6s 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

possible  chance  his  mind  was  begin 
ning  to  go.  To  relieve  her  own  she 
hurried  back  to  Joy  in  the  kitchen,  and 
began  a  conversation  that  had  not 
flagged  by  tea-time. 

The  Poor  Boy  had  found  a  long 
diagonal  by  which  he  could  descend 
from  the  top  of  the  cliff  to  the  bottom 
in  one  swift  silent  slide.  More  than 
half-way  down  there  was  a  dangerous 
turn,  but  he  had  learned  to  ski  at  St. 
Moritz  when  he  was  little,  and  never 
thought  of  the  danger  at  all.  The 
chief  thing,  turn  or  no  turn,  was  to 
get  to  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  as  quickly 
as  possible.  Everything  that  was  bitter 
and  tragic  in  his  life  ended  there,  in 
an  open  glade  among  towering  white 
pines. 

The  day  that  Martha  had  left  for 
66 


THEY    VANISH 

New  York,  the  Poor  Boy,  standing 
very  lonely  on  the  top  of  the  cliff  and 
looking  out  over  the  valley,  had  been 
struck  with  a  whimsical  thought. 

"If  I  had  the  power,"  he  thought, 
"  I  M  settle  this  region  with  innocent 
people  who  have  been  accused  of 


crimes." 


At  this  suggestion  the  component 
parts  of  his  nature  began  a  discussion. 

Reason:  How  would  you  know  they 
were  innocent? 

Truthfulness:  They  'd  tell  me.  And 
I  'd  know. 

Snobbishness:  Very  few  people  in 
your  station  of  life  are  accused  of 
crime. 

Cynicism:  And  very  few  of  them  are 
innocent. 

Snobbishness:   You  wouldn't  care  to 
67 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

associate  with  people  of  lower  station 
than  yourself. 

Affection:  I  love  Martha  better  than 
anybody  in  the  world. 

Reason:  Think  of  something  more 
sensible. 

Love  of  Detail:  I  wonder  how  we 
could  dispose  of  sewage  without  pol 
luting  lakes  and  streams  ?  I  must  send 
for  books  on  the  disposal  of  sewage. 

Love  of  the  Beautiful:  I  should  like 
to  settle  the  whole  valley  without 
changing  the  look  of  it  —  from  here. 

Eyes  (roving  from  one  group  of 
screening  trees  to  the  next):  It  can 
be  done.  Put  your  village  on  the  east 
side  of  the  big  lake,  back  of  the  hard 
wood  ridge.  Do  you  remember  Placid 
Brook?  That  will  flow  through  the 
main  street.  It  will  be  kept  clean  and 

68 


THEY    VANISH 

well  stocked  with  trout,  so  that  the 
old  men  can  fish  from  the  bridges. 
Above  the  village  there  shall  be  a  path 
along  the  brook,  all  in  the  shade.  Can't 
you  see  the  girls  and  boys  walking, 
two  and  two? 

Love  of  Detail:  All  the  houses  in  the 
village  must  be  white.  Who  is  going 
to  make  the  laws? 

Ego:  I  am.  Because  I  own  the  val 
ley.  And  put  up  the  money. 

Modesty:  But  there  will  be  lots  of 
men  wiser  than  I  am.  And  they  will 
help. 

Sudden  Impulse:  The  women  shall 
have  votes. 

Childishness:    The  men  shan't. 

Reason:  Now  I  wonder.  It 's  never 
been  tried,  and  maybe  it 's  what  the 

world  is  waiting  for  and  striving  for. 
69 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

Touch  of  Genius  and  Prophecy:  It 
shall  be  tried.  It  is  what  the  world 
needs.  No  votes  for  men.  No  men  on 
juries.  .  .  . 

Memory:  (Things  too  recent  and 
poignant  for  utterance.) 

Vague  Idea  Gathered  at  School:  Am 
I  going  to  stand  for  being  taxed  with 
out  representation? 

Sense  of  Justice:    No. 

Self -confidence:  But  if  I  can't  in 
fluence  some  woman's  vote  I  may  as 
well  drown  myself. 

Reason:  Some  men  have  no  influ 
ence  over  anybody.  They  won't  stand 
for  taxation  without  representation. 

The  Poor  Boy  (as  a  whole)  gives  up 
with  reluctance  the  idea  of  a  govern 
ment  of  the  ladies,  by  the  ladies,  and 

for  the  ladies. 

70 


THEY    VANISH 

Wish  to  Do  the  Next  Best  Thing:  Let 
it  be  a  government  by  commission  — 
a  commission  of  three.  A  man  and  a 
woman  —  and  — 

Touch  of  Genius:  The  children  must 
be  represented.  They  shall  elect  a 
child. 

Sense  of  the  Ridiculous:  Upon  a  plat 
form  of  "  Baseball  in  the  streets  — 
longer  vacations,  and  more  of  them." 

Reason:  The  child  must  not  be  re 
lated  to  the  other  members  of  the  com 
mission.  We  are  against  affairs  of 
state  being  influenced  by  a  slipper. 

Sense  of  Decency,  Good  Form,  Breed 
ing,  etc.:  Candidates  shall  not  vote 
for  themselves;  nor  stump  the  valley 
proclaiming  at  the  top  of  their  lungs 
that  they  alone  can  keep  the  country 

from  going  to  the  dogs. 
71 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

Fondness  for  an  Occasional  Glass  of 
Champagne:  How  about  liquor? 

Self-control:  If  everybody  else  will 
do  without  it,  /  will. 

Human  Nature:  We  must  encour 
age  early  marriages. 

Ego:  Of  course,  you  exempt  yourself. 

Whole  System  of  Nerves  and  Circula 
tion:  I  do  not! 

Fastidiousness:  She  must  be  so  and 
so  and  so  (but  he  only  succeeded  in 
conjuring  up  a  vague  shadow  of  a  girl). 

Beginning  like  this  (or  something  like 
it),  deliberately,  and  thinking  up  things 
as  he  went  along,  the  Poor  Boy's 
imagination  suddenly  stepped  in  and 
took  such  a  terrific  grip  of  the  situation 
that  little  by  little  the  idea  of  a  model 
settlement  became  as  real  as  the  most 

vivid  and  logical  dream. 
72 


THEY    VANISH 

The  valley  was  under  three  feet  of 
snow.  There  was  four  feet  of  snow 
upon  the  surrounding  hills  and  moun 
tains,  but  already  the  engineers,  headed 
by  the  Poor  Boy,  had  been  at  work, 
and  the  masons  and  the  carpenters. 
And  many  miles  of  ditches  had  been 
dug,  and  dams  built,  and  a  power 
house,  and  roads  (always  among  trees 
—  so  that  the  natural  beauty  of  the 
valley  was  not  so  much  as  scratched), 
and  already  the  village  was  complete, 
with  its  white  houses  and  white  school 
(with  its  longer  holidays  and  more  of 
them),  its  white  library  with  the  long 
lovely  colonnade,  commission  house 
facing  it,  gardens  in  front  of  every 
dwelling,  and  pairs  of  lovers  strolling 
by  Placid  Brook. 

Furthermore  the  village  was  full  of 

73 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

people  already,  and  half  a  dozen  of 
them  had  been  so  clearly  designed  by 
the  Poor  Boy's  imagination  that  he 
could  see  them,  every  line  of  their  faces, 
every  detail  of  their  clothes.  He  knew 
every  intonation  of  their  voices.  When 
he  talked  with  them,  he  did  not  have 
to  make  up  their  answers--  they  just 
came.  And  better,  other  people,  at 
first  dim  figureheads,  were  becoming 
clearer  and  more  vivid  all  the  time,  so 
it  seemed  sure  that  before  long  he 
would  know  even  the  dogs  of  his  set 
tlement  by  sight. 

The  greatest  difficulty  in  the  game 
that  he  was  playing  lay  in  the  imper 
fection  of  his  memory.  As  he  built 
each  house  in  the  village  he  saw  it  as 
plainly  as  I  see  the  pages  on  which  I 
am  writing,  but  leaving  it  to  go  at  the 

74 


THEY    VANISH 

next  house  he  had  to  return  again  and 
again  to  fix  the  image  of  the  first.  For 
instance,  he  got  the  whole  village 
built,  and  lying  in  his  bed  that  night 
could  only  remember  with  real  dis 
tinction  the  commission  house,  the  li 
brary,  and  one  dwelling  house,  far 
down  the  main  street.  The  rest  was 
vague  —  houses  —  white  houses  —  not 
high  —  not  crowded,  but  all  blurred 
and  without  detail,  as  if  seen  through 
tears. 

He  built  the  village,  parts  of  it,  four 
or  five  times  before  it  became  a  defi 
nite  thing  to  him.  Before  he  could  stop, 
let  us  say,  before  the  Browns'  house 
and  take  pleasure  in  the  trim  of  their 
front  door,  before  he  could  see  the 
heliotrope  growing  in  the  snow-white 
jardiniere  in  the  living-room  window, 

75 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

before  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Brown  made 
cookies  every  Friday,  and  that  if  you 
went  round  to  the  kitchen  door  and 
were  very  hungry  and  polite  she  gave 
them  away  while  they  were  still  hot 
and  crisp. 

It  was  precisely  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Brown  that  the  Poor  Boy  had  been  so 
eager  to  leave  his  own  house.  Real 
ities  began  for  him  at  the  bottom  of 
the  cliff.  The  road  to  the  village 
crossed  the  glade  in  the  pine  woods  — 
the  snow  was  packed  and  icy  with 
much  travel,  with  the  sliding  of  run 
ners  and  the  semicircular  marks  of 
horses'  hoofs.  As  the  Poor  Boy  sped 
along  on  his  skis,  he  met  people  in 
sleighs  and  was  overtaken  and  passed 
by  others.  They  were  his  people  — 

his  alone.     He  had  cheerful  words  for 
76 


THEY    VANISH 

all  of  them,  and  they  for  him.  They 
were  hazy  —  a  little  —  to  the  eye,  but 
here  and  there  he  caught  a  face  clearly 
and  did  not  forget  it  again  —  a  baby 
in  a  blue-and-white  blanket  coat,  that 
had  bright  red  cheeks  and  that  smiled 
and  showed  two  brand-new  teeth;  a 
boy  with  bare  hands  and  red  knuckles 
(the  Poor  Boy  sent  him  a  pair  of  warm 
mittens  from  the  village  store),  and 
ears  (one  bigger  than  the  other)  which 
stuck  straight  out. 

The  Poor  Boy  came  to  a  halt  sud 
denly  where  a  stream  too  vigorous  to 
be  ice-bound  crossed  the  road  (under  a 
concrete  bridge  that  had  been  built 
only  the  day  before),  ran  out  over  a 
ledge  of  smooth  granite  and  fell  thirty 
feet  with  a  roar. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Poor  Boy,  "there's 

77 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

got  to  be  a  sawmill  with  a  red  roof 
and  flower-boxes  in  the  windows,  and 
this  is  just  the  place  for  it  or  I  'm  very 
much  mistaken.  ...  I  wonder  .  .  . 
I  wish  to  the  deuce  Mr.  Tinker  was 
here,  he  's  the  best  man  we  've  got  on 
water-power.  The  woods  are  full  of 
trees  that  ought  to  be  cut  for  the  ben 
efit  of  the  others.  Yardsley  was  show 
ing  me  about  them  only  yesterday. 
But  this  is  a  matter  for  Tinker." 

The  Poor  Boy  listened  and  heard 
sleigh-bells.  They  came  swiftly  nearer. 

"Wonder  who  this  is?" 

Around  the  nearest  turn  of  the  road 
toward  the  village  came  a  powerful 
roan  horse,  drawing  a  cutter;  in  the 
cutter  sat  an  enormous  man,  but 
the  Poor  Boy  had  already  recognized 

the  horse. 

78 


THEY    VANISH 

"I  'm  damned,"  said  he;  "Tinker!" 

He  waved  both  arms  and  called  a 
joyous  greeting.  The  cutter  came  to 
a  halt  on  the  bridge. 

"Just  the  man  I  wanted  to  see," 
said  the  Poor  Boy.  "I  want  advice  and 
help.  Yardsley  says  we  're  letting  a 
lot  of  timber  go  to  waste.  Now  how 
about  a  sawmill  —  right  here?" 

Mr.  Tinker  was  a  joyous  bachelor 
of  forty-five.  He  had  been  cashier  of 
a  bank.  A  deficit  arising,  he  had  been 
wrongfully  accused  of  direct  respon 
sibility,  and  from  prison  he  had  come 
straight  to  the  Poor  Boy's  settlement 
on  special  (most  special)  invitation. 
He  had  taken  a  room  (and  bath)  in 
the  village  inn,  and  had  made  a  little 
money  out  of  contracts  which  the  Poor 
Boy  had  thrown  his  way. 

79 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"What  's  the  flow  here  in  summer?" 
asked  Mr.  Tinker  doubtfully. 

"About  half  what  it  is  now,"  said 
the  Poor  Boy. 

"Hum  —  that  would  be  width  so 
and  so  —  depth  so  and  so.  ...  What 's 
the  fall?" 

"Thirty  feet." 

"Can't  use  it  all,  can  we?" 

The  Poor  Boy  shook  his  head. 

"Well  — I  tell  you,  I'll  bring  a 
tape-measure  to-morrow  and  go  into 
the  thing  thoroughly.  By  the  way, 
you  know  Mrs.  Caxton,  who  's  stay 
ing  at  the  inn?" 

"Yes  —  yes,"  said  the  Poor  Boy, 
"they  accused  her  of  shoplifting  and 
it  wasn't  she  at  all." 

"Damn  them,"  said  Tinker. 

"By  all  means,"  said  the  Poor  Boy. 

80 


"Now  how  about  a  sawmill — right  here?" 


THEY    VANISH 

"But  what  about  her?"  His  eyes 
twinkled. 

Mr.  Tinker  blushed  and  beamed. 

"She's  given  up  her  rooms." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Poor  Boy. 

"And  we  're  going  to  move  to  the 
little  house  on  the  corner." 

"Then,"  said  the  Poor  Boy,  "what 
are  you  doing  alone  in  the  woods?" 

"Came  to  find  you,"  said  Tinker. 
"Couldn't  get  married  without  you." 

"Turn  around,"  cried  the  Poor  Boy. 
"I'm  with  you." 

He  knelt  swiftly  and  took  off  his  skis. 

He  started  to  slide  an  affectionate 
arm  round  the  older  man's  shoulders, 
but  jerked  it  back  before  it  was  too 
late. 

"No,"  he  muttered,  "you  mustn't 
try  to  touch  them  or  they  vanish." 

81 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"What's  that?" 

"Just  that  this  is  the  best  thing  that 
ever  happened.  You  're  just  made  for 
each  other,  you  two." 

They  sped  on  through  the  pine 
forest,  talking  of  village  matters,  of 
school  matters,  and  hitching-posts,  of 
politics,  of  sewers  —  but  mostly  of 
love. 

It  was  dark  when  the  Poor  Boy  got 
back  to  his  own  house.  But  he  was 
very  happy  and  (in  spite  of  many  hot 
crisp  cookies  at  Mrs.  Brown's  kitchen 
door)  very  hungry. 

After  he  had  dressed  and  dined,  he 
soaked  his  hands  in  hot  water  to  make 
them  supple,  and  played  Beethoven 
till  far  into  the  night. 

Martha  went  boldly  into  the  room 

to  listen,  and  sat  in  a  deep  chair  by 

82 


THEY    VANISH 

the  fire,  as  was  her  right.  But  Miss 
Joy  listened  without  the  door,  and 
during  the  Adagio  from  the  Pathetique 
her  hands  covered  her  bowed  face  and 
tears  came  through  the  fingers. 

Then  she  crept  off  to  bed,  but  Mar 
tha  came  before  she  was  asleep  to  say 
good-night. 

"Miss  Joy,"  she  said,  "it 's  the  first 
time  since  he  came  that  he's  played; 
other  times  he 's  only  fooled  and 
toyed." 

"Martha,"  said  Miss  Joy,  "I  think 
it 's  the  first  time  that  anybody  ever 
played." 

"It 's  what  the  Poor  Boy  does  best," 
said  Martha,  "and  takes  the  least 
pride  in.  Listen  now — he  's  making  up 
as  he  goes  --  there  's  voices  —  only 
listen  —  there  5s  one  that  insists  and 
83 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

one  that  denies  —  but  both  their  hearts 
are  breakin' — breakin' in  their  breasts." 

Miss  Joy  sat  straight  up  in  bed. 
"Listen,  Martha -- there 's  a  third 
voice  —  things  are  going  to  come  right 
for  the  other  two- 

Thus  the  two  women.  As  for  the 
Poor  Boy,  he  made  music  because  he 
had  been  to  a  wedding  that  day  and 
knew  that  if  he  got  to  thinking  about 
it  alone  in  the  dark  he  might  get  so 
unhappy  that  he  would  remember 
where  he  had  hidden  his  revolver  and 
his  rifles,  and  get  up  to  look  for  them. 

He  played  until  he  was  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind.  Then  he  rose  from 
the  piano,  closed  it  gently,  and  went 
to  bed.  He  was  very  sad  and  unhappy, 
but  quite  sane  again. 


84 


VIII 

TOURING  the  winter  the  Poor  Boy 
-•^  friade  two  excursions,  lasting  for 
a  number  of  days,  southward  through 
his  valley  and  beyond.  It  was  sup 
posed  by  Martha,  wild  with  anxiety, 
and  by  Miss  Joy,  but  little  less  so,  that 
he  went  alone.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  had  companions;  Yardsley,  the 
forester  and  surveyor;  Wangog,  the 
Huron  chief,  taciturn  in  talk,  but  a 
great  woodsman;  and  Stephen  Bell,  a 
young  man  recently  come  to  live  in 
the  village  and  a  great  favorite  with 
the  Poor  Boy. 

It  had   developed   that   there  were 

85 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

enough  people  wrongfully  accused  of 
some  crime  or  other  in  the  world  to 
settle  the  Poor  Boy's  lands  from  the 
big  lake  all  the  way  to  the  salt  sea. 
And  the  main  object  of  his  long  excur 
sions  was  to  locate  upon  deep  water, 
navigable  for  great  ships,  a  site,  not 
for  a  village,  but  for  a  city. 

Already  his  first  village  had  suburbs, 
and  here  and  there,  dotted  about 
among  the  foot-hills,  were  villas  be 
longing  to  a  wealthier  class  of  people: 
Bradleys,  Godfreys,  Warrens,  Warings, 
etc.,  families  of  position  and  breeding, 
among  whom  was  a  constant  round  of 
little  dinners  and  dances  to  which  the 
Poor  Boy  dearly  loved  to  be  invited. 

Government  by  a  commission  of 
three  was  an  established  and  success 
ful  fact.  Though  it  must  be  owned 

86 


^v -- 

B;   •'&$ 


8N> 

'$&-*•'     i  *  ' 


''R/'  V--* 

£* '-  '^' 

«r  ^." 


During  the  winter,  the  Poor  Boy  made  two  excursions  southward 
through  his  valley  and  beyond. 


THEY    VANISH 

that  as  the  man  member  and  the 
woman  member  could  never  agree 
about  anything,  all  reins  of  policy 
were  gathered  into  the  hands  of  the 
child. 

"A  child  leads  us,"  was  often  in  the 
mouths  of  the  village  elders,  and 
often  anxiety  expressed  as  to  what 
would  happen  when  the  child  grew  up. 
But  that  he  would  grow  up  was  not 
likely,  since  he  was  the  very  image  of 
what  the  Poor  Boy  himself  had  been 
at  the  same  age  —  a  charming,  straight 
forward,  most  honorable  boy,  touched 
by  the  fairy  godmother  of  justice, 
music,  and  fancy. 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  the 
school-children  learned  with  three 
hours'  schooling  a  day  (except  Wednes 
day,  Saturday,  and  Sunday,  when 
87 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

they  had  none),  and  how  outdoor  play 
the  rest  of  the  time  was  rapidly  de 
veloping  them  physically  and  in  the 
sense  of  responsibility  and  judgment. 
There  were  no  recorded  cases  of  weak 
eyes,  nerves,  or  hysteria.  There  were 
no  suicides  among  the  children  upon 
the  occasion  of  failures  to  pass  exam 
inations. 

Nor  was  morbid  curiosity  allowed  to 
stalk  among  them,  destroying  as  it 
went.  They  were  brought  up  on  a 
newer  and  more  scientific  catechism, 
beginning: 

Teacher:    Who  made  you? 

Answer:    My  father  and  mother. 

And  among  themselves  they  were 
encouraged  to  raise  up  questions  and 
bring  them  to  their  elders  for  simple 
and  instructive  answers.  And  the 


THEY    VANISH 

punishment  for  lying  to  children  and 
frightening  them  with  mysteries  was 
very  terrible. 

Upon  his  second  long  excursion  the 
Poor  Boy  and  his  jolly  companions  (ex 
cept  Wangog,  who  was  taciturn)  came 
to  the  end  of  the  Poor  Boy's  lands,  a 
coast  of  granite  sheathed  with  ice,  and 
beyond,  great  broken  cakes  of  ice 
heaving  slowly  with  groans  and  grind 
ing  roars  upon  the  tranquil  winter 
ocean. 

Back  of  the  granite  barriers  the 
river  spread  right  and  left,  and  then 
went  out  to  sea  in  a  deep  and  narrow 
stream,  curiously  free  from  ice.  In 
deed,  there  was  but  little  ice  in  the 
main  basin,  and  a  kind  of  steam 
hung  over  it  so  that  the  Poor  Boy  was 
compelled  and  delighted  to  conclude 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

(with  the  aid  of  his  companions)  that 
the  river  toward  its  mouth  must  be 
swollen  by  warm  springs. 

"I  wonder  if  ships  couldn't  come  in 
all  the  year  round?" 

He  was  going  to  wonder  about  other 
things,  when  the  taciturn  Wangog 
grunted  and  pointed  to  where  the 
smoke  of  a  steamer  lay  black  along 
the  horizon,  and  after  that,  to  them 
closely  watching,  little  by  little  her 
black  hull  rose  from  the  grays  and 
whites  and  greens  of  the  ice. 

She  proved  to  be  many  kinds  of  a 
ship,  in  rapid  succession,  but  last  of 
all  she  was  a  yacht,  huge  and  black 
and  glittering  with  much  brass.  She 
was  owned  by  a  great  statesman,  who, 
with  nothing  but  his  country's  welfare 

at  heart,   had    been  accused   of  high 

90 


THEY    VANISH 

treason,  and  who,  having  heard  of  the 
Poor  Boy's  asylum  for  unfortunates, 
was  making  for  it  as  fast  as  he  could. 

She  came  slowly  between  the  head 
lands  and  to  anchor  at  last  with  a 
splendid  splash  that  glittered  in  the  sun 
like  diamonds.  .  .  . 

It  was  very  disappointing.  If  the 
Poor  Boy,  searching  a  more  than  half- 
emptied  knapsack,  was  ever  to  get 
home  to  his  own  house  he  must  post 
pone  his  visit  to  —  Lord  Harrow's 
(yes,  that  was  the  name  forever  and 
ever)  yacht.  Why  had  the  Poor  Boy 
and  his  companions  wasted  so  much 
time  over  an  empty  harbor,  when  they 
might  just  as  well  have  had  the  yacht 
arrive  in  the  early  morning,  giving 
time  for  visits,  explanations,  and  lunch  ? 

The  Poor  Boy  began  to  stamp  his 
91 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

feet.  There  was  no  sensation  in  them, 
and  he  found  that  they  were  frozen. 
He  had  come  too  far,  he  had  exposed 
himself  too  much  —  the  sea  with  its 
burden  of  ice  groaned  and  clashed. 
His  companions,  so  jolly  but  now 
(except  Wangog,  who  was  taciturn), 
looked  pityingly  upon  him  and  began 
to  fade.  They  vanished.  He  was  all 
alone.  A  shrill  wind  was  rising,  dusk 
was  descending.  He  stood  and  stamped 
his  feet,  and  two  plans  fought  in  his 
head  for  recognition  and  acceptance. 

He  could  board  Lord  Harrow's  great 
black  yacht  and  be  welcomed  into  the 
light  and  the  warmth  of  the  great 
satin-wood  saloon  with  its  open  fire 
place  and  its  Steinway  grand.  Lord 
Harrow's  daughter,  that  lovely  girl, 

would  minister  to  him,  and  Warinaru, 
92 


THEY    VANISH 

the  steward,  would  bring  him  hot 
grog  in  cut  crystal,  upon  a  heavy  silver 
tray  of  George  the  First's  time.  They 
would  give  him  the  best  state-room, 
the  green  and  white  —  white  for  win 
ter,  green  for  summer  —  and  he  would 
sleep  —  such  a  long  sleep  —  with  no 
dreams  in  it,  no  worries,  no  memories 

-  no  awakening! 

That  was  one  plan  —  a  delightful 
plan.  So  easy  of  accomplishment!  He 
had  but  to  sit  in  the  snow  and  wait; 
Lord  Harrow  would  see  him  and  send 
a  boat.  No.  Lord  Harrow's  daughter 
should  be  the  first.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  No. 
How  foolish!  Don,  the  spaniel,  be 
gins  to  whine  and  fret,  to  put  his  paws 
on  the  bulwarks  and  bark  toward  a 
spot  on  the  shore. 

A  boat  is  lowered ;   Don,  the  spaniel, 

93 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

leaps  in  —  they  row,  following  the  point 
of  his  nose,  and  the  Poor  Boy  is  found 
just  in  the  nick  of  time.  .  .  . 

But  the  other  plan,  which  was  not 
delightful,  was  best. 

"I  told  old  Martha/'  the  Poor  Boy 
murmured,  "to  look  for  me  at  such 
a  time.  Why  break  her  heart  for  a 
pair  of  bright  eyes  and  a  glass  of 
hot  grog?  Why  not  keep  my  word? 
It 's  only  two  or  three  days  of  tor 
ture." 

He  turned  from  the  river  and  ran 
upon  his  skis,  stamping  at  each  step, 
until  he  found  shelter  from  the  wind. 
His  feet  began  to  tingle  and  he  knew 
that  they  were  not  frozen.  But  by 
the  time  he  had  a  fire  going  they  were 
numb  again. 

Between  the  Poor  Boy  and  his  old 

94 


THEY    VANISH 

Martha  was  not  two  or  three  days  of 
torture,  but  four.  During  part  of  the 
time  snow  fell,  and  wind  flew  into  his 
face  from  the  north. 

Late  on  the  fourth  day  he  climbed 
the  cliff  upon  which  his  house  stood, 
not  because  it  was  the  cliff  upon  which 
his  house  stood,  but  because  it  was  an 
obstacle  in  his  way.  His  house  might 
be  a  month's  journey  beyond,  for  all 
he  knew. 

At  the  top  of  the  cliff,  among  the 
pines  was  a  young  woman.  She  was 
by  no  means  the  first  he  had  seen  that 
day.  But  her  face  was  clearer  than 
the  other  faces  had  been,  and  when 
she  darted  behind  a  tree  and  tried  to 
escape  without  being  seen  or  spoken 
to,  he  ran  after  her,  not  knowing  why 
he  ran  nor  why  he  called  her  Joy 

95 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

—  J°Y  —  Joy!  And  he  did  not  un 
derstand  why  she  in  her  turn  kept 
calling,  "  Martha  —  Martha  —  come 
quick  —  come  quick!" 

He  knew  best  that  she  suddenly 
stopped  running,  and  turned  and 
waited  for  him,  and  that  as  he  fell 
forward  she  caught  him  in  her  arms 
and  began  to  drag  him  toward  a  bright 
light. 

It  was  a  most  vivid  hallucination. 
And  when  he  woke  in  his  bed,  so  warm 
and  all,  and  Martha  bending  over 
him,  the  first  thing  he  told  her  - 
smiling  sleepily  —  was  that  he  had 
mistaken  her  for  Miss  Jocelyn  Grey. 

"It  was  the  realest  sort  of  an  hal 
lucination,"  he  said,  "she  caught  me 
as  I  was  falling  —  and  of  course  she 

was  you/' 

96 


She  suddenly  stopped  running,  and  turned  and  waited  for  him. 


THEY    VANISH 

"How  do  you  feel,  Deary?  We  — 
I  had  a  devil  of  a  time  with  ye." 

But  the  Poor  Boy's  mind  was  still 
upon  the  vision  of  Miss  Grey. 

"I  saw  her,"  he  said,  "and  there 
was  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  told  me 
she  'd  never  —  never  believed  I  Jd  done 
it.  ...  And  I  was  so  glad,  I  tried  to 
run  to  her  for  comfort,  and  all  the  time 
she  was  you.  It  was  all  so  real  —  so 
real.  It  was  a  lot  realer  than  some 
things  that  really  did  happen  to  me 
yesterday  —  yesterday  morning,  be 
fore  I  began  to  get  snow-foolish." 

<i!  'Twas  the  day  before  yesterday  ye 
came  home,"  said  Martha.  "And  all 
yesterday  ye  raved  like  a  lunatic  until 
night,  when  ye  fell  asleep,  and  I  knew 
that  all  was  well." 

"Have  you  sat  up  with  me  all  the 
time?" 

97 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Ye  forget  I  have  an  old  female  to 
help  me.  We  took  turns." 

"You  must  thank  her  for  me,  Mar 
tha." 

"I'll  do  that." 

"Tell  her  I  am  grateful  to  her,  and 
I  think  we  should  give  her  quite  a  lot 
of  money,  don't  you?" 


IX 

Poor  Boy  could  not  get  Miss 
A  Jocelyn  Grey  out  of  his  head,  nor 
that  look  which  she  had  had  of  belief 
in  him.  The  episode  was  a  rejuvena 
tion,  and  there  were  days  when  he  was 
steadily  joyful  from  morning  to  night. 

He  was  having  luncheon  one  day, 
and  he  said  to  Martha: 

"I  never  knew  what  Miss  Joy  be 
lieved.  But  ever  since  I  saw  — 
thought  I  saw  her  —  that  time  —  I  Ve 
been  as  sure  as  sure  that  she  knew  jus 
tice  had  miscarried." 

"I'm  for  thinking  you're  right/' 
said  old  Martha. 

"But  if  she   believed   in   me,   why 

99 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

didn't  she  write  and  say  so?  We 
were  such  good  friends  until  we  had  a 
sort  of  misunderstanding." 

"You  never  told  me  about  that." 
"Oh,  it  was  silly.  We  were  both 
staying  with  the  Brettons;  and  one 
day  Miss  Joy  turned  her  ankle  and  I 
wanted  to  carry  her  back  to  the  house, 
and  she  wouldn't  let  me.  Every  step 
she  took  hurt  her  a  lot,  and  me  more. 
I  was  a  spoiled  boy.  I  always  did 
what  I  wanted  to  do.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  wanted  to  carry  her  more 
than  anything  I  'd  ever  wanted  to  do. 
And  she  wouldn't  let  me.  So  we  man 
aged  to  misunderstand  each  other  very 
thoroughly,  and  then  things  began  to 
happen -- things  began  to  happen." 

The    Poor    Boy    sighed.      Then    he 
looked  up  with  a  smile  and  a  blush. 


IOO 


THEY    VANISH 

"I  Ve  always  thought,"  he  said, 
"that  if  she  had  let  me  carry  her,  I 
would  have  asked  her  to  marry  me. 
Anyway,  it 's  the  nearest  I  ever  came 
to  asking  any  one." 

"And  not  very  near,"  said  Martha, 
"since  she  wouldn't  be  bothered  with 
a  lift." 

"She  was  a  good  kid,"  said  the  Poor 
Boy.  And  then,  more  than  half  to 
himself:  "I  think  I  '11  have  her  up  for 


a  visit." 


"Fwaat!"  exclaimed  Martha. 

"I  '11  have  her  stay  with  some  of  my 
make-believe  people,"  he  said.  "She  '11 
be  the  first  person  to  come  here  that 
I  ever  knew  before.  She  shall  stay 
with  —  with  ?  I  have  it,  she  's  a  guest  of 
Lord  Harrow's  daughter,  and  they  Ve 
just  moved  into  Harrow  Hall.  That 's 


101 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

the    new    Georgian    House,    on    Lilly 
Pond.  ..." 

"When  I  was  in  New  York  I  saw 
Miss  Joy." 

"You  did!" 

"She  was  prettier  than  any  picture. 
She  come  up  and  give  me  both  hands 
and  says:  'Why,  Martha!9  And  then 
we  talked. —  And  she  never  believed 
you  did  it,  never!" 

"Ah!    She  might  have  written!" 

"Throubles  came  on  her  poor  father. 
He  lost  his  money,  and  he  died.  She 
lost  thought  for  any  one  but  him." 

"Miss  Joy --poor!    How  dreadful! 
How  wrong!     What  is  she  doing?" 

"She's  a  sort  of  companion  and 
helper  to  a  rich  old  woman,  and  she  's 
saving  her  wages  against  a  rainy  day." 

The  Poor  Boy  was  terribly  troubled 


IO2 


THEY    VANISH 

about  his  old  friend.  She  had  been  so 
generous,  so  debonair,  such  a  gay  and 
charming  spender. 

"Oh!"  he  cried.  "Can't  I  do  any 
thing?" 

"Once  before,"  said  old  Martha, 
"ye  tried  for  to  give  her  a  lift,  and  you 
know  well  what  came  of  it." 

His  eyes  flashed. 

"She  shall  stay  at  Harrow  Hall," 
he  said.  "Every  day  I  shall  take  her 
walking,  and  every  day  she  shall  turn 
her  ankle,  and  I  shall  carry  her  back 
to  her  house.  And  when  I  find  out 
how  poor  she  is  I  shall  kill  an  old 
uncle  of  hers  in  the  southwest  —  she 
never  heard  of  him  —  his  name  is 
Eliphalet  Pomfret  Grey,  and  he  shall 
leave  her  a  pot  of  money. —  Did  she 

send  me  any  message,  Martha?" 
103 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"She  did  not." 

He  was  sorry  —  inside. 

Miss  Joy  thought  that  the  Poor  Boy 
was  a  very  long  time  at  his  luncheon. 
She  was  feeling  rather  blue  and  lonely. 
She  wanted  to  talk  to  Martha,  and 
here  it  was  half  past  two  o'clock,  and 
Martha  still  in  the  dining-room  with 
the  Poor  Boy. 

She  could  hear  the  sound  of  their 
voices  but  not  the  words.  She  could 
have  heard  the  words  by  listening  at 
the  pantry  door.  But  it  never  en 
tered  her  head  to  do  so.  She  was 
working  at  a  marble-topped  table  try 
ing  to  compose  a  cake  according  to  a 
very  complicated  inspiration  in  a  cook 
book  that  weighed  seven  pounds.  Miss 
Joy  had  a  vague  idea  that  her  cake, 

not  a  large  cake,  was  going  to  weigh 
104 


THEY    VANISH 

more.  It  was  going  to  be  very  dark  and 
rich,  something  like  a  wedding-cake. 

Martha  came  at  last  from  the  di 
ning-room,  and  examined  the  mixture 
which  Miss  Joy  had  made. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"Lady  Godiva." 

"Lady  God  help  us!  And  what  is 
the  antidote?" 

"Hard  work  in  the  open  air.  Why 
were  you  so  long?" 

"We  got  talking!" 

"What  about?" 

"Mostly  about  the  dangers  of  fall 
ing  down  and  hurting  yourself." 

"Why,"  asked  Miss  Joy  innocently, 
"is  it  so  slippery  out?" 

Martha  was  overjoyed,  and  began 
to  execute  a  sort  of  cautious  tiptoe 

dance. 

105 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"I  'm  showing  ye  how  an  old  woman 
walks  on  thin  ice,"  said  Martha.  She 
stopped  dancing.  "The  Poor  Boy  is 
off  to  his  playground,  and  it 's  time 
you  got  ready  for  your  walk." 

"Did  he  say  when  he  was  coming 
back?" 

"'Not  before  dark/  he  said." 

"Then  I  can  go  as  far  as  the  Three 
Beeches,"  said  Miss  Joy.  She  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"  'Tis  a  pity  ye  have  to  walk  alone." 

"But  it's  doing  me  so  much  good. 
I  'd  hate  to  know  what  I  weigh." 

"Be  careful  you  don't  fall  and  hurt 
yourself,"  said  Martha.  "And  be 
careful  your  red  cheeks  don't  set  the 
woods  on  fire." 

"Oh,  Martha,  are  they  —  too  red?" 

106 


THEY    VANISH 

"Miss  Joy"  —  this  with  solemn  and 
heartfelt  faith —  "unless  it  is  for  a  nose 
now  and  then,  the  Lord  Gawd  never 
made  anything  too  red  in  his  life- 

The  Poor  Boy  hurried  to  the  beau 
tiful  new  Georgian  home  that  Lord 
Harrow  had  built  on  Lilly  Pond,  and 
was  already  occupying.  As  befitted  a 
great  man  he  had  the  whole  lake  to 
himself.  His  house,  backed  by  noble 
beeches  and  pines,  faced  south,  and 
was  a  wonderful  deep  red,  with  white 
trim.  The  house  opened  directly  on 
a  terrace,  which  in  turn  was  built 
out  over  the  lake.  It  was  formally 
planted  to  box  and  roses.  It  was  all 
under  snow  now,  but  white  mounds 
marked  the  positions  of  the  box-bushes, 
and  neat  stakes  and  straw  jackets 

showed  where  the  roses  would  bloom. 

107 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

The  terrace  garden  would  be  a  great 
show  in  June.  And  the  Poor  Boy  had 
no  difficulty  in  closing  his  eyes  for  a 
moment  and  so  seeing  it. 

The  Poor  Boy,  privileged  old  friend 
that  he  was,  entered  without  ringing, 
and  started  through  the  ground  floor 
of  the  house,  stopping  at  times  to  ad 
mire  a  mantel-piece,  a  ceiling,  or  a 
painting.  Lord  Harrow's  new  hot 
houses  being  in  full  blast,  there  were 
flowers  everywhere,  and  great  logs  of 
birch  roared  and  crackled  in  all  the 
fireplaces.  The  Poor  Boy  peeped  into 
the  dining-room  and  drew  back,  his 
eyes  almost  drunk  with  mahogany, 
and  gold  and  Spanish  leather.  Under 
a  table  in  the  hall  stood  a  great  silver 
punch-bowl  in  which  water  was  kept 
for  Don,  the  spaniel,  to  drink.  There 


108 


THEY    VANISH 

were  stags'  heads  on  the  walls,  and  on 
each  side  of  the  stairway  stood  a 
splendid  suit  of  Gothic  armor.  One 
suit  was  inlaid  with  enamel,  black  as 
ebony,  and  the  other  with  red  gold. 

The  Poor  Boy  lifted  his  voice  and 
called  up  the  columned  wall  of  the 
stair: 

"Anybody  home!" 

Lord  Harrow's  daughter  leaned  over 
the  rail.  She  had  a  very  white  face 
and  very  wonderful  red  hair.  Her  way 
of  speaking  always  reminded  the  Poor 
Boy  of  pearls  falling  from  a  string  one 
by  one. 

"Joy  Grey  's  just  come,"  she  said. 
"She's  changing  into  outdoor  things. 
Do  you  mind  waiting?" 

"How  is  she?"  asked  the  Poor  Boy 
eagerly. 

109 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Oh,  she  's  white  and  tired  after  all 
she's  been  through,  poor  duck;  don't 
let  her  overdo  at  first.  Where  are 
you  going  to  take  her?" 

"Aren't  you  coming  with  us?" 

Three  pearls  fell. 

"How  — you --talk!" 

"But  — but  — " 

"Nonsense,"  exclaimed  Lord  Har 
row's  daughter.  "You  're  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  her,  and  she  with 
you." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Poor  Boy. 
"Do  you  mean  that!" 

"Mean  it?  Of  course  I  do.  And 
everybody  knows  it  —  except  you  two. 
I  was  in  the  village  yesterday,  and  the 
people  had  heard  that  she  was  coming 
-  to  you  —  to  you  —  and  they  were 
hanging  wreaths  in  the  windows  as 


IIO 


THEY    VANISH 

if  for  Christmas.  When  we  drove 
through  the  village  on  our  way  here 
they  lined  the  main  street  and  cheered 
her." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"She  was  delighted.  She  thought 
they  were  cheering  my  father  and  me, 
and  she  said  she  was  so  glad  that  she 
had  been  asked  to  visit  such  wonder 
ful  distinguished  people.  The  little 
duck!" 

"The  little  goat"  cried  the  Poor 
Boy.  "The  darling  little  goat!" 

"Only  call  her  that  to  her  face  — 
and  she  's  yours." 

"I  daren't,"  said  the  Poor  Boy, 
"now  that  I  know  that  I  love  her- 

" Lucky  I  told  you!"  This  with 
pearly  sarcasm. 

"Now  that  I  know  —  I  'm  afraid  - 
in 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

I  'm  afraid.  .  .  .  But  I  Ve  always 
loved  her.  It  began  in  Arcadia,  that 
is,  Central  Park.  You  roller-skate 
there  when  you  are  little.  She  was 
knee-high  to  a  grasshopper,  and  I  was 
shoulder-high.  She  wore  a  coat  of 
gosling-green  with  facings  of  primrose- 
yellow,  and  when  she  fell  and  barked 
the  knee  of  one  stocking  I  took  her  to 
old  Martha,  and  old  Martha  mended 
her.  Her  knee  itself  wasn't  really 
hurt,  but  it  was  all  rough  and  gritty 
from  the  asphalt.  She  didn't  cry. 
And  so  I  loved  her.  Why  is  she  so 
long  changing  into  outdoor  things?" 

"Hush!"  pearled  Lord  Harrow's 
daughter.  "She's  coming." 

And  the  Poor  Boy's  heart  echoed: 
"She  's  coming  —  she  's  coming." 

At  the  last  moment  reason  and  ex- 


112 


THEY    VANISH 

perience  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Don't 
be  a  fool  —  don't  spoil  everything.  If 
you  tell  her  you  love  her  and  she  says 
she  loves  you,  why  the  least  you  can 
do  is  to  kiss  her,  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  if  you  touch  them  they 
vanish." 

So  the  Poor  Boy  walked  with  Joy 
that  day  and  the  next  and  the  next, 
and  they  were  never  very  far  apart, 
and  he  got  to  love  her  more  and  more. 
And  the  more  he  loved  her  the  more 
dangerous  was  it  to  tell  her  so,  for 
things  got  to  such  a  point  that  if  she 
had  suddenly  vanished,  the  blow  would 
almost  have  broken  his  heart. 


X 


BUT  it  was  the  heart  of  winter,  not 
the  Poor  Boy's  that  was  to  be 
broken.  March  came,  and  a  wind 
from  the  south.  Snow  melted  in 
sunny  corners,  to  freeze  again  at  night, 
and  melted  and  froze ;  and  April  came, 
and  wherever  the  Poor  Boy  went  with 
his  love  there  was  a  sound  of  water 
falling,  running,  and  roaring.  The  ice 
in  lakes  and  streams  wore  thin  along 
the  shores,  broke,  lost  its  grip,  tinkled 
in  the  brooks,  clashed  and  cracked  in 
the  river.  In  the  lakes  the  margin  of 
water  between  the  ice  islands  and  the 

shore  grew  wider  and  wider.     In  open 
114 


THEY    VANISH 

spaces,  faced  south,  the  snow  melted 
and  thinned  until  black  soil  showed  in 
patches.  Rain  came,  more  and  more 
frequently,  until  no  day  passed  with 
out  rain,  and  the  land  was  washed 
clean  of  winter,  and  rinsed,  and  became 
deep  mud,  that  oozed  and  gasped  un 
der  foot. 

The  Poor  Boy  had  been  happier 
than  he  had  ever  hoped  to  be  again. 
And  since  Joy's  coming  (she  still 
stopped  with  Lord  Harrow's  daugh 
ter,  who  conversed  pearls)  there  had 
been  an  ecstasy  in  his  happiness  and 
a  thrilling  quality  of  romance.  No 
man  who  has  not  endured  solitude  in 
long  doses  knows  how  vivid,  real,  and 
necessary  people  and  things  of  the 
imagination  may  become.  Sometimes 
the  Poor  Boy  laughed  at  himself,  but 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

more  often  he  surrendered  to  his  in 
ventions,  his  people,  his  dams,  power 
houses,  and  schemes  of  amelioration, 
as  you  surrender  to  an  opiate. 

His  valley  from  his  own  house  to 
the  sea  was  a  thriving  and  virtuous 
state;  on  terms  with  other  govern 
ments.  Ships  came  and  went;  there 
were  exports  and  imports,  newspa 
pers,  news.  News  of  inventions,  of  ro 
mances,  of  misunderstandings  righted 
by  Solomonian  judgments;  of  suc 
cesses,  promotions;  and  almost  every 
day  in  the  foreign  columns  were  to  be 
found  reversals  of  those  judgments  by 
which  his  friends  and  the  citizens  of 
his  little  state  had  been  convicted  of 
sins  and  crimes  of  which  they  had  never 
been  guilty. 

But   daily   and    sometimes    nightly 

116 


THEY    VANISH 

through  the  complex  evolutions  of  his 
dreams  the  Poor  Boy  never  lost  grip 
upon  his  own  personal  love-affair.  It 
had  become  more  real,  and  with  the 
bursting  of  woods  and  meadows  into 
carpets  of  spring  flowers  more  neces 
sary  to  him  than  anything  in  life.  It 
was  joy  for  him,  and  rapture  —  a  dizzy 
path  into  unknown  lands  where  only 
the  footprints  of  the  "True  Romance" 
marked  the  way.  But  suddenly  some 
times  in  the  very  heyday  of  his  ecstasy 
the  tragedy  of  it  smote  him,  you  may 
say,  between  the  eyes  —  so  that  vil 
lages  vanished,  homes,  institutions, 
and  all  the  creatures  of  his  brain,  and 
he  saw  himself,  as  another  might  have 
seen  him,  a  very  young  man,  all  alone, 
thrust  out  forever  and  ever. 

The  thought  that  all  unknown   to 
117 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

him  the  real  Miss  Grey  might  love  an 
other,  belong  to  another,  tortured  him. 
Tortured  him,  too,  the  knowledge  that 
if  this  was  so  he  had  no  right  to  enter 
tain  that  beloved  phantom  that  he 
had  made  of  her  in  his  North  Woods. 
Or  it  tortured  him  to  remember  that 
his  love  for  her  could  come  to  nothing 
-  nothing.  He  must  not  tell  her  that 
he  loved  her;  he  must  not,  upon  a 
night  flooded  with  moonlight  and  the 
odor  of  flowers,  so  much  as  touch  her 
hand,  because  he  knew  too  well  -  -  too 
well  —  that  "when  you  touch  them 
they  vanish." 

Old  Martha  and  Joy  will  never  for 
get  a  certain  June  night.  The  Poor 
Boy  did  not  come  home  for  his  dinner; 
supper  of  the  most  tempting  nature 
and  variety  did  not  tempt  him.  He 

118 


THEY    VANISH 

was  drunk,  ethereally  drunk  with  the 
beauty  of  the  night  and  with  love. 
He  opened  many  windows,  and  sat 
at  his  piano  in  the  moonlight.  The 
two  women  drew  as  near  as  they  dared, 
to  listen,  while  the  Poor  Boy's  tan 
talized  soul  went  out  in  splendid,  be 
seeching  singing.  Until  after  midnight 
Schubert  and  Schumann  and  other 
lovers  sang  through  the  Poor  Boy  to 
their  loves,  and  the  women  listened 
and  cried  and  trembled,  or  were  carried 
upward  as  it  were  upon  angel  wings 
into  regions  of  pure  and  disembodied 
bliss. 

At  last  there  fell  a  long  silence. 

It  was  now  the  Poor  Boy  who  lis 
tened.  He  had  sent  forth  his  questing, 
questioning  soul,  and  he  waited  for  an 

answer.     But  in   those   regions,   that 
119 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

night,  all  things  were  still;  and  not 
so  much  as  the  hoot  of  an  owl  an 
swered  him  nor  the  chirp  of  a  cricket. 

"Oh,"  he  thought,  "there  is  no  an 
swer  for  me  in  all  the  world,  no  answer. 
I  have  said  all  that  I  can  say.  And 
she  —  she  doesn't  hear  —  she  will  not 
hear  —  she  can  not  hear." 

His  fingers  found  their  way  once 
more  to  the  keys,  and  for  a  while  har 
monies  rose  in  slow,  quiet  succession 
like  a  meditation,  and  took  more  shape 
presently  as  if  something  had  been  de 
cided  on,  and  began  to  follow  an  air 
that  flowed  with  eternal  sadness  like 
blood  from  a  broken  heart  .  .  .  and 
then  once  more  the  Poor  Boy  was 
singing: 

"Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs,  she  will  not  hear, 
Let  us  go  hence,  together,  without  fear. 

120 


His  fingers  began  to  follow  an  air  that  flowed  with  eternal  sadness 
like  blood  from  a  broken  heart. 


THEY    VANISH 

Keep  silence  now,  for  singing  time  is  over, 
And  over  all  things  old,  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me,  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea!   Though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 
She  would  not  hear." 


He  broke  off  abruptly.  The  knob 
had  rattled  in  a  door!  —  a  door  had 
opened,  and  been  swiftly  closed.  The 
Poor  Boy  leapt  to  his  feet.  He  thought 
he  had  heard  her  voice. 

He  stood,  and  trembled.  .  .  . 

That  "Yea!  though  we  sang  as 
angels  in  her  ear,  she  would  not  hear," 
had  been  too  much  for  Joy.  She  had 
sobbed  and  said  things,  and  had  tried 
to  go  to  him.  It  was  her  voice  that 
he  had  heard. 

Martha  had  dragged  her  out  of 
danger  and  sent  her  to  bed  with  a 


121 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

scolding.  "The  conceit  of  some  peo 
ple!"  she  had  exclaimed.  "To  be  al 
ways  thinking  it 's  themselves  as  is 
grouped  in  the  lime-light  of  another's 
thoughts!" 


122 


XI 

can  get  away  from  people, 
but   you    can't  get  away  from 
moths." 

It  was  Martha  herself,  carrying  a 
great  paper  bag  of  camphor-balls  and 
a  great  roll  of  tarred  paper,  who  an 
nounced  this  truth. 

Rain  was  falling  in  torrents.  Even 
the  Poor  Boy  did  not  feel  like  going 
out.  He  looked  with  a  certain  long 
ing  at  the  bag  of  camphor  balls. 

"Going  to  put  the  furs  away?" 

Martha  said  that  she  was. 

Time    was    hanging    heavily    that 
morning.     There  was  neither  music  in 
the  Poor  Boy  nor  desire  to  read. 
123 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"I  think — v  he  began,  and  was 
ashamed. 

"You  think?" 

"Nothing." 

"Out  with  it." 

"Just  that  —  well,  you  see,  I  Ve 
never  done  it  —  always  had  you.  But 
I  'm  thinking  it  must  be  rather  fun  to 
fold  things  carefully,  and  put  them  in 
cedar  chests,  and  sprinkle  moth-balls 
over  them,  and  tuck  them  in  with 
tar-paper." 

"And  you  think  wrong,"  said  Mar 
tha.  "It  is  no  fun  at  all." 

"Oh!  "said  the  Poor  Boy.  "You're 
used  to  it.  You  Ve  always  done  it. 
But  I  haven't." 

"No  more,"  said  Martha,  "have  you 
ever  knit  a  comforter." 

"I   think  that  would  be  fun  too," 
124 


THEY    VANISH 

twinkled  the  Poor  Boy;  "a  very  little 
comforter.  I  should  use  very  thick 
worsted  and  make  very  big,  loopy, 
spready  stitches.  I  think,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I  '11  put  my  own  things  away 
for  the  summer." 

Martha  clutched  the  bag  and  the 
roll  of  paper  tighter.  Her  jaws  set. 

"Don't  be  selfish,  Martha." 

Her  jaws  relaxed. 

"What  do  I  do  first,  Martha?" 

"First  you  get  all  your  things  in 
one  place.  Then  you  brush  them  and 
fold  them.  Then  you  lay  them  away 
in  the  chests." 

The  Poor  Boy,  in  shirt-sleeves,  was 
soon  busily  employed,  making  in  the 
centre  of  the  living-room  an  enormous 
pile  of  winter  furs  and  woolens- 

coonskin  coats,  Shetland  socks,  stock- 
125 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

ings,  oily  Norfolk  coats  and  mackin 
toshes,  sweaters,  mittens,  fur  gloves, 
fur  robes,  steamer  rugs,  toques,  and 
mackinaws. 

The  great  pile  finished,  he  sorted  his 
things  into  smaller  piles:  a  pile  to  be 
thrown  away,  a  pile  to  be  given  away, 
a  pile  to  be  kept. 

A  doubtful  garment  was  a  mack- 
inaw  of  dark  gray  splashed  with  blood- 
color  and  black.  It  had  seen  better 
days,  on  the  one  hand;  on  the  other,  it 
was  sound,  and  he  had  always  liked 
the  coloring.  He  carried  it  to  the 
light  and  looked  it  over  carefully. 

What  was  there  about  an  old  lum 
berman's  coat  to  bring  a  look  of  be 
wildered  wonder  into  the  Poor  Boy's 
eyes?  And  what  particular  memories 
did  he  associate  with  the  last  time  of 

wearing  it? 

126 


THEY    VANISH 

He  closed  his  eyes,  frowned,  thought, 
remembered. 

"I  wore  this,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"the  time  I  went  down  to  the  sea, 
and  nearly  died  getting  back.  Then  it 
was  mislaid,  when  I  wanted  to  wear  it 
again.  Then  spring  came.  .  .  .  When 
I  got  back  from  the  sea  I  thought  I 
saw  Joy.  I  thought  she  ran,  and  that 
I  ran  after  her.  Then  that  she  turned 
and  caught  me  as  I  fell.  ...  I  was 
wearing  this  coat.  I  haven't  worn  it 


since." 


With  fingers  that  shook  he  unwound 
from  the  top  button  of  the  coat  a  long, 
entangled  hair,  the  color  of  old  Do 
mingo  mahogany,  which  is  either  more 
brown  than  red,  or  more  red  than 
brown.  Nobody  can  swear  which. 

When  Martha  came  to  see  how  the 

127 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

Poor  Boy  was  getting  on  with  his  pack 
ing  she  was  amused  to  find  that  he 
had  tired  of  it.  That  his  things  were 
all  in  a  mess,  nothing  packed  or  pro 
tected  from  moths,  and  that  he  himself 
was  standing  at  a  window  looking 
out  into  the  dark  torrents  of  rain.  At 
his  feet  was  an  old  mackinaw.  Mar 
tha  picked  it  up  and  folded  it. 

"  Shall  I  resoom  where  you'  ve  left 
off?"  she  asked. 

"Please!  But  be  careful  of  that 
coat." 

She  began  to  bring  order  swiftly 
out  of  chaos. 

"Martha!" 

"Don't  be  stopping  me  now." 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  knew 
that  something  that  couldn't  possibly 

be  true  absolutely  was  true?" 

128 


THEY    VANISH 

"For  that/'  said  Martha  bluntly, 
"  I  'd  take  two  tablespoonfuls  of  castor- 
oil." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Poor  Boy, 
"and  it  can't  be." 

He  passed  one  hand  in  front  of  his 
face  as  if  brushing  a  cobweb  or  —  a 
hair. 

"A  hot-water  bag  at  the  feet,"  Mar 
tha  continued  impetuously,  "and  an 
other  on  the  pit  of  the  stomick  is  a 
favored  remedy  with  some." 

"Martha.  ..." 

"What  else?" 

"Has  your  helper  got  reddish- 
brownish,  brownish-reddish  hair  —  the 
color  of  the  sideboards  in  the  dining- 
room?" 

"Well,"  said  Martha,  "she  has  and 

she  hasn't.     The  first  of  every  month 
129 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

'tis  that  color  or  thereabouts;  but  be 
the  twenty-ninth  or  thirtieth  'tis  back 
to  a  good  workin'  gray." 

"The  day  I  got  back  from  the  sea," 
said  the  Poor  Boy  to  himself,  "was 
about  the  twenty-ninth  or  the  thir 
tieth.  But  still  if  I  'm  going  to 
believe  what  can't  be  true  —  I  say, 
Martha,  lend  me  a  saucer  of  alcohol, 
will  you?" 

Old  Martha  bustled  off  and  returned 
with  what  he  required.  The  Poor  Boy 
carried  his  chemical  into  the  book-room 
and  closed  the  door  firmly,  and  much 
to  Martha's  disappointment,  she  being 
anxious  to  know  what  was  toward  in 
her  darling's  mind. 

The  Poor  Boy  placed  the  saucer  of 
alcohol  in  the  light,  and  dropped  into 

it   the   mahogany-colored   hair;   noth- 

130 


THEY    VANISH 

ing  happened.  The  hair  itself  appeared 
brighter  perhaps,  but  the  crystal 
liquid  was  not  discolored.  The  Poor 
Boy  devoted  half  an  hour  to  the 
experiment.  There  was  no  develop 
ment. 

"Not  Ed  Pinaud,"  he  then  said 
reverently,  "dyed  this  hair,  but  the 
Lord  God." 

He  put  it  away  in  a  safe  place,  just 
over  his  heart. 

"Not,"  he  said,  "because  it  is  hers, 
but  because  it  is  the  same  color.  And 
because  there  are  stranger  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  than  ever  any  man 
wotted  of  in  his  philosophy." 

Martha  knocked  on  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Martha." 

"Just  to  tell  you  that  it 's  stopped 
raining,  and  if  ye  '11  not  take  oil  nor 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

hot-water  bags,  the  next  best  remedy 
for  cobwebs  in  the  brain  is  exercise." 

The  Poor  Boy  was  glad  to  get  out. 

He  went  straight  to  Lord  Harrow's 
house  and  walked  with  Joy  for  hours 
—  up  and  down  between  the  glorious 
roses  on  the  terrace.  The  path  was 
wide.  They  could  walk  side  by  side 
without  danger  of  touching  each  other. 

She  was  very  grave  that  afternoon. 
So  was  he.  It  was  hard  that  they 
should  love  each  other  so  much  and 
not  be  allowed  to  talk  about  it  or  hold 
hands.  But  the  Poor  Boy  knew  mighty 
well  that  if  he  touched  her  she  would 
vanish. 

"There's  comfort,"  thought  the 
Poor  Boy,  "in  loving  a  spirit  —  even 
if  it  can  never  be  quite  the  real  thing. 

She  will  always  be  just  as  I  see  her 
132 


"  She  will  always  be  just  as  I  see  her  now,  no  older,  untroubled 
gentle  and  dear." 


THEY    VANISH 

now,  no  older,  untroubled,  gentle,  and 
dear." 

He  said  poetry  to  her,  and  hummed 
songs.  She  dropped  a  rose  that  she 
was  carrying.  He  stooped  to  pick  it 
up,  remembered,  and  let  it  lie.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  very 
sadly. 

He  saw  her  mistily  through  tears. 
She  vanished.  Vanished  the  rose  gar 
den,  vanished  Lord  Harrow's  house. 
And  remained  only  a  wild  lake,  an 
open  space  in  which  he  stood,  and  wild- 
woods,  and  beyond  more  woods  and 
hills  and  mountains. 

To  the  west  the  forest  was  intoler 
ably  bright,  as  if  it  was  burning.  The 
sun  was  going  down. 


133 


XII 

OLD  Martha  and  Joy  were  bending 
over  a  tremendous  pile  of  news 
papers,  cables,  and  telegrams  that  had 
just  been  brought  in  by  special  mes 
senger  from  the  nearest  village  in  the 
outside  world. 

The  messenger,  a  rosy  old  man,  kept 
explaining  why  he  had  come. 

"I  know  it's  not  my  day  to  come 
in  and  that  he  don't  want  us  hangin' 
about  where  he  can  see  us,  but  the 
missus,  she  says,  don't  you  dare  to 
keep  back  this  news  from  him  even  if 
he  shoots  you  down  in  your  tracks." 
134 


THEY    VANISH 

The  newspapers  said  that  the  Poor 
Boy  had  been  wrongfully  accused, 
wrongfully  convicted,  wrongfully  im 
prisoned,  and  that  his  'scutcheon  was 
clear  in  the  eyes  of  all  men. 

Martha  took  it  upon  herself  to  open 
some  of  the  telegrams.  They  were 
from  old  friends  who  wished  to  be  the 
first,  etc.,  etc. 

"Oh!"  cried  Martha,  "the  bastes. 
Why  couldn't  they  have  come  for 
ward  with  their  great  hearts  when  his 
trouble  was  heavy  upon  him,  when  a 
word  of  belief  would  have  strengthened 
him  for  what  he  had  to  go  through?" 

She  wept.  She  raved.  She  talked 
pure  Irish,  and  there  was  no  one  pres 
ent  who  could  understand  her,  and 
there  were  only  seven  people  in  Ire 
land  who  could  have  understood. 
135 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"Please!"  said  Miss  Joy  to  the  mes 
senger,  "God  bless  you,  and  go  away." 

He  went  slowly,  his  fingers  inch 
ing  their  way  continually  around  the 
battered  circumference  of  the  straw 
hat.  He  drove  off,  after  a  while,  as 
one  in  a  trance.  The  last  thing  that 
would  have  occurred  to  him  was  that 
his  good-hearted  impulse  had  made  a 
rich  man  of  him. 

"We  must  find  him,"  said  Miss  Joy, 
"and  tell  him  —  at  once.  You  must 
find  him.  It 's  your  duty  and  your 
privilege.  He  must  hear  the  good 
news  from  you." 

But  Martha  shook  her  head,  and 
talked  through  her  apron  which  she 
had  thrown  over  it.  When  sense  be 
gan  to  mingle  with  her  words  she 

pulled  down  this  flag  of  distress,  and 
136 


THEY    VANISH 

showed  a  face  red  with  emotion  and 
tears. 

"Full  well  I  know  his  heart,"  she 
said.  "  Tis  an  open  book  to  me." 

Then  she  laughed  aloud. 

"  'Tis  better  than  an  open  book,  for 
I  read  like  a  snail  and  cannot  write  at 
all.  .  .  .  'Tis  you  must  bear  him  the 
glad  tidings  —  you  alone  —  with  your 
bright  hair  the  color  of  the  old  side 
boards  in  the  dining-room.  Take  the 
front  page  of  a  newspaper  and  run  to 
him.  'Tis  for  you  to  do." 

There  was  a  wonderful  light  in 
Miss  Joy's  eyes.  Martha  mocked  it: 
'"Yea,"'  said  she,  "  <Tho'  we  sang  as 
angels  in  her  ear,  she  would  not  hear!' 
Be  off!" 

"How  shall  I  find  him?" 

"If  you  don't  know  that  then  I  am 
137 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

wrong.  And  it 's  me  that  should  go. 
If  your  heart  cannot  take  you  to  him, 
'tis  not  the  heart  I  Ve  thought  it." 

But  Miss  Joy,  clutching  the  front 
page  of  a  newspaper,  was  gone,  bare 
headed,  running,  in  the  dusk. 

As  for  old  Martha,  she  wailed  all 
alone  in  the  kitchen.  No  one  would 
ever  know  what  it  had  cost  her  to  send 
forth  another  on  that  errand  of  glad 
tidings. 

The  Poor  Boy  looked  up  calmly. 
What  was  possible  in  broad  sunlight 
was  no  matter  even  of  difficulty  in  the 
dusk.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
even  for  a  creature  of  his  brain  she 
was  preternaturally  natural  and  solid- 
looking.  Nor  was  he  in  the  habit  of 

letting  her  look  quite  so  pale  or  breathe 

138 


THEY    VANISH 

so  hard.  But  when  she  spoke  he  was 
troubled ;  not  because  the  sound  of  her 
voice  was  an  unusual  sound  for  him  to 
hear,  but  because  in  the  present  in 
stance  it  was  accompanied  with  dis 
tinct  vibrations.  And  that  had  never 
happened  since  she  came  to  stay  with 
Lord  Harrow's  daughter. 

"Balking,"  she  said,  "has  con 
fessed!" 

"Yes  —  yes,"  said  the  Poor  Boy, 
"I  always  knew  he  did  it.  But  I 
couldn't  very  well  say  so,  could  I?  I 
had  to  take  the  gaff." 

"There  are  telegrams  and  cables 
from  all  your  friends  to  say  how  glad 
they  are." 

A  shadow  of  bitterness  came  over 
the  Poor  Boy's  face,  but  went  swiftly. 

"It  can  never  be  the  same   about 

139 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

them,"  he  said.  "They  all  believed. 
But  now  they  are  sorry." 

He  sighed  deeply,  and  then  smiled 
like  sunshine. 

"It  was  like  you  to  bring  me  the 
news.  Dear  child,  where  is  your  hat, 
and  why  did  you  run  so  fast?  You 
might  have  fallen  and  hurt  yourself. 
Do  you  remember  the  day  you  turned 
your  ankle  and  wouldn't  let  me  carry 
you?" 

"I  'm  not  such  a  little  fool  as  I  used 
to  be,"  she  said.  Her  face  was  getting 
whiter  and  whiter. 

"'You  are  hurt!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  that  same 
blessed  ankle.  I  was  so  excited  over 
the  good  news  that  I  didn't  mind  at 
first,  but  now  —  I  --  I  think  I  '11  have 

to  sit  down  and  rest  it." 
140 


THEY    VANISH 

The  Poor  Boy  knew  better  than  to 
give  her  a  helping  hand.  When  you 
touch  them,  they  vanish. 

She  sank  down  with  a  little  moan. 

"How  am  I  going  to  get  back  to  the 
house?"  she  said.  "I  'm  sure  I  don't 
know." 

"I  '11  send  for  a  motor." 

A  motor?    Was  he  crazy? 

"A  motor  couldn't  get  in  here,"  she 
said;  "the  trees  are  too  close  together." 

"I'll  have  them  down,"  said  the 
Poor  Boy;  "it's  only  a  matter  of  in 
stants,"  and  he  smiled  gently.  "But 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  these 
things  are  done." 

"Here's  the  paper,"  she  said. 
"Don't  you  want  to  read  for  your 
self?"  She  held  it  out  to  him.  But 

he  shook  his  head. 
141 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"I  can  see  the  headlines  from  here," 
he  said.  "Balking  confesses  -  -  yes, 
it 's  all  there." 

And  then  suddenly  the  Poor  Boy 
turned  his  face  heavenward  and  cried 
with  a  great  bitterness: 

"Oh,  God!  oh,  God!  — if  it  only 
was  true!" 

She  thought  he  was  mad.  But  she 
was  not  afraid.  She  wanted  to  go  to 
him,  to  comfort  him,  to  share  with 
him  her  own  fine,  young  sanity. 
But  the  turned  ankle  would  not  do 
any  work,  and  she  could  not  get  up. 
He  heard  her  moan.  And  looked  at 
her  once  more,  his  eyes  round  with 
wonder. 

"But  I  have  just  taken  you  to  Lord 
Harrow's  in  a  motor,"  he  said;  "and 

yet  here  you  are  —  and  in  pain." 
142 


THEY    VANISH 

"I  think  I  can  walk,"  she  said.  "If 
you  don't  mind  helping  me  a 
little." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  said  the 
Poor  Boy  cautiously.  "But  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  when  you  touch 
them, — they  vanish." 

There  was  a  pained  silence.  She 
was  bitterly  disappointed.  The  Poor 
Boy  was  thoroughly  bewildered.  His 
imagination  was  playing  him  an  ex 
traordinary  trick. 

"That 's  the  reason,"  he  went  on, 
"that  we  can  never  tell  each  other 
that  we  love  each  other,  you  know. 
'Cause  if  we  did,  we  'd  have  to  kiss 
and  hold  hands  —  and  that  would  be 
the  end  of  everything  —  better  you 
this  way  —  than  the  other  way  and 
no  you." 

143 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

Her  pain  was  becoming  greater  than 
she  could  bear. 

"Any  man  would  help  me,"  she  be 
gan;  and  then  came  the  tears  in  a 
torrent. 

The  Poor  Boy  could  not  stand  it. 

"It  is  better,"  he  said,  "that  she 
should  vanish!" 

He  stepped  swiftly  forward. 

The  realness  of  her  almost  dazed 
him.  In  his  happiest  day-dreams  in 
Lord  Harrow's  rose-garden  by  the 
lake  there  had  never  been  quite  so 
vivid  a  materialization.  Furthermore, 
she  had  violets  in  her  dress,  and  as  he 
bent  to  lift  her  (and  resolve  her  into 
the  stuff  o'  dreams)  the  sweetness  of 
them  was  strong  in  his  nostrils. 

"Well  — well,"  he  thought,  "peo 
ple  with  too  much  imagination  always 
144 


And  then  carrying  her  swiftly  home,  he  proceeded  to  go  quite 
mad. 


THEY    VANISH 

do  end  by  going  mad.  And  now  it  5s 
happened  to  me." 

And  it  was  just  what  did  happen  to 
him  a  moment  later,  only  he  was  to 
go  mad  with  a  different  kind  of  mad 
ness  —  a  sane  and  wonderful  madness. 

He  touched  her  and  she  did  not 
vanish. 

He  made  a  sound  that  was  half 
moan,  half  pity,  and  he  lifted  her  in 
his  strong  arms.  And  then  carrying 
her  swiftly  home,  he  proceeded,  as  I 
have  forewarned  the  reader,  to  go 
quite  mad.  So  did  she,  bless  her, 
until  there  was  no  longer  any  pain  in 
her  ankle  or  in  her  heart. 

"Well  — well,"  said  old  Martha; 
"what's  all  this?" 

She  stood  in  the  door  of  the  house 

lighting  them  with  a  lamp. 
145 


IF    YOU    TOUGH    THEM 

"This,"  said  the  Poor  Boy  in  his 
ecstasy,  "is  a  new  and  wonderful 
thing." 

He  laughed  aloud  for  joy. 

"And  the  more  you  kiss  her  —  the 
less  she  vanishes!" 


146 


AN  **' 

OVERDUE  ——- 


40406 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


